1. technology and computing
2. programming languages

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Why Do Languages Change?
The first recorded English name for the make-up we now call blusher was
paint, in 1660. In the 1750s a new word, rouge, displaced paint, and remained
in standard usage for around two centuries. Then, in 1965, an advertisement
coined a new word for the product: blusher. Each generation speaks a little
differently, and every language is constantly changing. It is not only words that
change, every aspect of a language changes over time – pronunciation, word
meanings and grammer. Packed with fascinating examples of changes in the
English language over time, this entertaining book explores the origin of
words and place names, the differences between British and American
English, and the apparent eccentricities of the English spelling system.
Amusingly written yet deeply instructive, it will be enjoyed by anyone
involved in studying the English language and its history, as well as anyone
interested in how and why languages change.
r . l . t r a s k was a world authority on the Basque language and on historical
linguistics. He wrote both academic and popular books, notably on grammar,
punctuation, and English style and usage. His publications include Language:
The Basics (1995) and Mind the Gaffe (2001). At the time of his death in 2004,
he was Professor of Linguistics at the University of Sussex.
The book has been revised by Robert McColl Millar, Senior Lecturer in
Linguistics at the University of Aberdeen.
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Why Do Languages Change?
R. L. Trask
Revised by
Robert McColl Millar
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore,
São Paulo, Delhi, Dubai, Tokyo
Cambridge University Press
The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK
Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York
www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521838023
© R. L. Trask 2010
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the
provision of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part
may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published in print format 2009
ISBN-13
978-0-511-77002-9
eBook (NetLibrary)
ISBN-13
978-0-521-83802-3
Hardback
ISBN-13
978-0-521-54693-5
Paperback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy
of urls for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication,
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
For my wonderful Jan
Contents
List of figures and tables
A few words before we start
Acknowledgements
page viii
ix
xi
1
How do languages change?
2
Why are languages always changing?
19
3
Where do words come from?
39
4
Skunk-Leek – my kind of town: what’s in a name?
64
5
Where does English come from?
84
6
Why is American English different from British English?
106
7
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
130
8
Which is the oldest language?
154
Some final thoughts
Further reading
Index
1
185
187
190
vii
Figures and tables
Figures
1.1 The cot/caught merger
7.1 A mystery word
8.1 The BSL sign for ‘walk’
page 14
147
181
Tables
2.1
2.2
5.1
5.2
5.3
6.1
6.2
7.1
7.2
7.3
8.1
viii
Old English words and their modern equivalents
Old English plurals
Some Grimm’s Law changes
Old Norse words in English
Some Old English vocabulary
Some British–American vocabulary differences
British and American automobile vocabulary
Some ‘foreign’ words in English
Some pairs of English words
Some more pairs
The spread of writing
30
35
91
97
99
109
110
142
151
152
169
A few words before we start
This book is intended to give a sense of language change to interested laypeople
of any age; it is not a textbook. I do hope, however, that it will act as a door into
historical linguistics for some readers.
Because of its nature, I have made no assumptions about knowledge either of
languages or, more importantly, of the techniques linguists use to describe
language. If we are going to treat the subject in any depth or seriousness,
however, I have found it necessary occasionally to use special terms and
symbols in the text. I normally explain these, but I want to discuss some
potential sticking points before we start. Readers may well find themselves
coming back to this page occasionally.
The Roman alphabet used for English is not terribly effective, as we will see,
in representing the sounds of English, never mind the potential sounds found in
all the world’s languages. Because of this, phoneticians and other linguists who
work with sounds have spent a considerable amount of effort over the last
hundred years and more developing an extended writing system, the
International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA), which can describe all of these sounds.
I will not use more than a handful of these symbols in this book, and only when
necessary. Most of these symbols make sense to anyone used to the Roman
alphabet: /p/ stands for <p>, for instance; /n/ for <n>. Sometimes, however,
there is potential for confusion. IPA /j/ stands for the first sound in English yes;
the <j> in judge is represented by /dʒ/ in IPA; IPA /y/ stands for the vowel in
French tu. When potential headaches of this sort exist, I have highlighted them.
It is worth noting that the vowel symbols in IPA stand for the ‘continental’
values associated with these letters. Thus /e/ stands for the vowel found in bay, if
you are from Scotland and a few other places, not the vowel in bee. /a/ stands for
the vowel in cat for most British people; while /æ/ is the vowel found in the
same word in most North American accents (and some conservative upper-class
varieties in southern England); /ɑ/ is the vowel found in words like bath in
southeast England (other British varieties would have /a/).
You may have noticed that I have used the convention / / to surround sounds
in most of the book, but [ ] for a few. This represents a subtle but important
distinction in sound perception. All speakers have the ability to produce all
ix
x
A few words before we start
sounds which can be produced by humans. By the time they have reached
school age, however, the number of separate sounds speakers perceive from this
variety depends upon what language they speak. For instance, German speakers
can, of course, make the sound [θ], as found at the start of English thing; unless
they are trained, however, they hear it only as a variant of a larger unit, /s/. For
most English speakers, however, the initial sounds in thing and sing are
absolutely separate; to a German speaker, they are variants of the same essential
sound. These essential sounds are called phonemes and are represented by / /; all
variants of these phonemes are called allophones and are represented by [ ]. The
important thing to remember is that how phonemes are laid out over the range of
potential sounds differs from language to language. Spellings, when necessary,
are shown using < >.
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to Lyle Campbell, Richard Coates, Jan Lock, Tony Lock, Andrew
Winnard and two anonymous readers for valuable comments on earlier drafts of
some or all chapters. Many of the examples in Chapter 4 are taken from the
scholarly publications of Richard Coates. Acknowledgements for examples
taken from other people’s writing are provided in the text.
For the origins of English words, I have relied chiefly on the Chambers
Dictionary of Etymology (originally published as the Barnhart Dictionary of
Etymology) and on the Oxford English Dictionary. In doubtful cases, I have
consulted several other dictionaries and very many websites.
The map in Figure 1.1 is reproduced with permission from Walt Wolfram and
Natalie Schilling-Estes, American English (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998). The BSL
signs in Figure 8.1 are reproduced with permission from J. G. Kyle and B. Woll,
Sign Language: The Study of Deaf People and Their Language (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1985).
Any remaining shortcomings are my responsibility.
A note from the reviser
This book was left in an advanced state at the time of Larry Trask’s death in
2004, since when it has passed through the editorial process at Cambridge
University Press. When I took on the task of revising the typescript in Spring
2008, I made the decision that, unlike my treatment of Trask’s Historical
Linguistics, I would not stamp my own personality and views on Why Do
Languages Change? When I is used in this book, therefore, it is Larry Trask
who has chosen to do so. My task, as I saw it, was to do what Larry Trask would
have done had he had the opportunity: ‘cleaning’ the text and ironing out
inconsistencies. I hope that I have done so in as unobtrusive a manner as
possible. My thanks go to my dear wife, Sandra, who helped with this work,
despite the slight distraction of having a baby mid-way through the process.
I am very glad to answer queries on the material covered in this book. My
e-mail address is [email protected].
Robert McColl Millar, November 2008
xi
1
How do languages change?
All languages change
My grandparents didn’t talk the way I talk. For example, my father’s mother
never used the words at the end. Instead, she always said at the last end: ‘at the
last end of the movie’, ‘at the last end of the game’, and so on. My father said the
same. But I have never said this, and even in childhood I considered it strange.
You too have very likely noticed that your parents or your grandparents speak
or spoke a little differently from you. And, if you have children or grandchildren, you have almost certainly heard them saying things that you would
never say. Everywhere we look, we find differences in speech between the
generations.
Each generation speaks a little differently because our language is always
changing. And not just our language: every language is always changing. There
is no such thing as a living language that fails to change. This is a piece of truth
on which you can rely absolutely.
There’s a widespread legend about a remarkable village, in the Appalachians
or in Derbyshire or somewhere distant from London and New York, where the
locals still speak pure and unchanged Elizabethan English. It doesn’t exist.
Nobody on earth has spoken Elizabethan English since the time of Queen
Elizabeth I, around 400 years ago. There is nobody alive today who speaks
English the way William Shakespeare spoke it, or the way Samuel Johnson
spoke it, or the way Abraham Lincoln spoke it, or the way Queen Victoria spoke
it. Apart perhaps from a handful of very elderly people, there is no one alive
today who speaks English like Humphrey Bogart or Noël Coward (both born
in 1899), or like Laurence Olivier or John Wayne (both born in 1907), or like
Sir Donald Bradman or Bette Davis (both born in 1908). There aren’t even
many people around today who speak English like John F. Kennedy or Anthony
Burgess (both born in 1917), or like Marilyn Monroe (born in 1926).
Watching English change
What do you call the coloured stuff that women sometimes put on their cheeks?
The first recorded English name for this stuff is paint, recorded from 1660. In
1
2
Why Do Languages Change?
those days, both men and women of certain social classes painted their faces:
you may have seen the garishly painted faces of the dandies in portraits of the
time. In 1753, a new word appeared in English: rouge. The first writer to use this
French word thought it necessary to explain to his readers that rouge was the
same thing as paint. But rouge soon displaced paint, and it remained the usual
English word for around two centuries. When I was a child, in the 1950s, rouge
was the only word anybody ever used.
Then, in 1965, an advertisement coined a new word for the product: blusher.
This word has gradually displaced rouge. When I recently heard a fashionable
young woman call it rouge, I almost fell over with astonishment: I hadn’t heard
anyone use the word for decades, and associated it with styles which were
already ancient when I was a child.
Few names of cosmetics are very old. Only in 1890 do we find the first
mention of mascaro, a thick dark make-up used by (mostly male) stage actors to
paint on eyebrows, so that their faces could be seen from the cheap seats. (The
word derives from an Italian word for ‘mask’.) And only in 1922 do we find the
first use of the altered and presumably more feminine version mascara to label a
slightly more subtle kind of eye make-up for women.
Fashionable items may be particularly given to linguistic change. Visiting my
local cosmetics counter, I was startled to discover a sign inviting me to buy a
certain product which, I was assured, was just the thing to ‘fragrance your home
or your car’. When I was just a little younger, English most emphatically did not
permit me to ‘fragrance’ anything. Languages are always changing, and we
older speakers find ourselves grumbling in the wake of the changes.
Sometimes, of course, the language changes because the world changes.
When shiny little silvery discs began to appear a few years ago carrying
recorded music, they had to be given a name, and so compact discs was duly
coined – though it took English speakers the better part of ten minutes to shorten
this intolerably long name to CDs.
This is just a very tiny sample of recent changes in English. Some have
occurred within my lifetime; some have occurred very recently indeed.
Consider Marilyn Monroe, who died in 1962. Marilyn never heard the word
compact disc or CD. It is quite possible that she never heard blusher, since that
word was not recorded in writing until shortly after her death. If she did hear it, it
was a brand-new word, just beginning to be used in speech by Americans, but
not yet found in print.
Since Marilyn’s death, the language has acquired many new words. Here is
just a tiny sample of the familiar English words that Marilyn Monroe never
heard: body-piercing, reggae, single mother, videotape, aromatherapy, G-spot,
laptop, AIDS, miniskirt, jumbo jet, sex worker, designer label, downsizing,
toyboy, trophy wife, sleaze, one-hit wonder, sound bite, bikini line, e-mail,
Third World, GM food, microwave oven, smoking gun (‘hard evidence’), into
How do languages change?
3
(‘deeply interested in’) and topless dancer. In fact, the word topless, applied to a
woman’s attire, is not recorded until 1964, and Marilyn probably never heard it,
even though topless is recorded from 1937 in connection with laws against such
swimming costumes for men! Those were dear dead days indeed: the world has
changed almost more than we can imagine, and the language has not lagged
behind.
Social changes have introduced whole areas of vocabulary that Marilyn never
heard. As a young woman, Marilyn didn’t smoke, but she was obliged to learn
to smoke for her role in the 1953 film Niagara, in which she played a Bad Girl.
We have many candid photos of a more mature Marilyn smoking off-screen,
and so it appears that her film smoking led her to take up smoking in real life.
This meant that she had to learn the vocabulary associated with smoking
although, surprisingly, given how many people smoked then, this was very
limited. In the 1950s, smoking went unremarked almost everywhere, and
tobacco companies were still claiming that doctors endorsed their products.
Accordingly, Marilyn never heard the words nicotine-free, passive smoking,
smokeless tobacco, advertising ban, nicotine patch, smoke-free zone, health
warning, anti-smoking laws or even low-tar. She never even heard smoking
area, since practically everywhere was a smoking area in Marilyn’s day, and it
was only the rare non-smoking areas that had to be labelled.
I must stress that the lists above do not contain even one-tenth of 1 per cent of
the new words which have entered English since 1962 – even if I exclude the
vast number of technical terms which have come into use in such fields as
computing. There are so many thousands of words which we use every day, but
which didn’t exist in 1962, that we might almost begin to wonder what Marilyn
Monroe talked about when she was off the screen.
Of course, Marilyn never found herself short of words, since the English of
the 1950s already provided her with a rich vocabulary for talking about anything she liked. Among the new words that only entered English in the 1950s
are rock ’n’ roll, sex kitten, coffee break, bikini, hardback (book), junk mail,
press release, dreadlocks, shades (sunglasses), sunroof, economy class, hula
hoop, hacker, software, the pill (for contraception), BLT (sandwich), stir fry,
scuba diving and exotic dancer, among many hundreds of others, so Marilyn’s
contemporaries were no slower than their successors in coining new words
at will.
Language changes like fashion
Looking into word origins produces some surprises. I had always assumed, for
instance, that feminism must be a very recent coinage indeed. But I was wrong:
the word is first recorded in 1846! The word was never common, however, and
gradually dropped out of use. The feminists of the 1960s called their movement
4
Why Do Languages Change?
women’s liberation, later shortened to women’s lib. But this name fell into
disfavour in the 1970s, possibly because it became associated with radical
posturing. The newly revived feminism gradually replaced it. Anybody who
used women’s lib today would get some pretty peculiar looks.
This last example illustrates one further point: words can disappear as well as
appear. The formerly prominent women’s lib is now gone, and few people now
use rouge. In the 1960s, there was a sit-in or a love-in in the paper almost every
week, but many younger readers probably don’t even know what these things
are. In the 1950s, everybody followed the hit parade. Any idea what that is?
(We now call it the charts.) Do you know what a B-girl is, or a carhop, or a
flack? (A female employee in a bar who encourages customers to spend money;
a waiter in an eat-in-your-car fast-food restaurant; a public-relations person.)
Can you remember rabbit ears? (A kind of indoor TV aerial.) Come to think of
it, when was the last time you heard anybody talk about a colour television?
Only if you’re acquainted with certain historical periods or topics are you
likely to know what a bustle is, or a flivver, or a Gibson girl (A bizarre
contraption for rearranging a woman’s figure; a battered old car; a young
woman epitomising the fashionable ideal of around 1900.) Most of us have
come across flivver only from Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, where a
future society has made Henry Ford, the car manufacturer, its God. One of the
many clichés which has been altered to fit this new ‘reality’ comes out as ‘Ford’s
in his Flivver: all’s right with the world.’
As we move slowly back in time, the dead words we encounter become
steadily more numerous, and perhaps steadily more obscure. You have to be an
especially devoted fan of Victorian fiction to know what a pocket pistol is. (It’s a
hip flask.) Even this degree of devotion might not help you with delope. A
duellist deloped by refusing to fire at his opponent, instead firing his pistol
harmlessly into the air. With the disappearance of duelling, its associated
vocabulary has evaporated, and only a handful of people with suitable historical
interests now trouble to learn these antique words. For most of us they are as
dead as the street slang of Pompeii.
Word meanings are slippery
What do you call the thing you sleep in at night? Unless you are a submariner
obliged to sleep in a hammock, you probably call it a bed, like everyone else.
This word has existed in English as long as English has existed as a distinct
language, and in fact it was present in the ancestors of English earlier than that.
Very likely future speakers will go on calling this object a bed for centuries to
come. This is the way we expect words to behave. But our expectations are not
always satisfied. Sometimes words do change their meanings, and sometimes
those changes in meaning are breathtaking. For instance, today the word bead
How do languages change?
5
means ‘small decorative ball with a hole through it’, and beads are usually found
strung together into necklaces or bracelets. But, a few centuries ago, the meaning of bead was utterly different: the word meant only ‘prayer’. How could it
change its meaning from ‘prayer’ to ‘small ball’?
Well, if you know a little about medieval Christianity, you can probably guess
at least roughly what happened. Medieval Christians were in the habit of
counting their prayers, and for this purpose they used a string of beads – a
rosary – to keep track of the number of Hail Marys or other prayers that had
been uttered. With each completed prayer, another bead was slipped along the
string, and this activity was called telling one’s beads. The word tell originally
meant ‘count’ as well as ‘relate’, which is why the person who counts out cash
in a bank is called a teller, and so the expression telling one’s beads meant
‘counting one’s prayers’ – which is what the praying person was doing.
However, since the person doing this appeared to be counting off the little
balls on the string of his rosary, the expression telling one’s beads came to be
re-interpreted as meaning ‘counting the little balls on the string’. As a result,
bead shifted its meaning from ‘prayer’ to ‘small ball’. In the context, this shift of
meaning was natural and easy.
Slightly more complicated is the case of grammar and glamour. Though you
may be astonished to hear this, grammar and glamour are the same word. But
glamour is fashionable, sexy and utterly desirable, while grammar is just about
the least fashionable and least sexy piece of the universe that non-linguists can
think of.
So how did this happen? Well, the ancestor of the word grammar was coined
in Ancient Greek and applied to the study of writing. This word was taken over
by the Romans into their Latin, and from Latin it spread into much of Europe.
Today we still use grammar to label the study of the structures of words, phrases
and sentences. But things were a little different in the Middle Ages.
In medieval times, few people in Europe could read and write; literacy was
seen as a rare, almost fabulous, achievement. Even fewer people could go
beyond mere literacy to the extent of studying and understanding the writings
of the great philosophers, scholars and scientists, particularly since these were
generally available only in Latin. To most people, such a degree of booklearning appeared simply magical, and indeed book-learning, which was commonly referred to simply as grammar, was hardly distinguished from magic at
all. In English, the variant form gramarye was an everyday word for ‘magic’ or
‘conjuring’, while in French the word grammaire was altered into grimoire,
meaning ‘a book of magical spells’; the word was later borrowed into English in
this form and has recently become current again through the Harry Potter books.
Our story moves now to Scotland, where the word grammar underwent a
small change of pronunciation to glamour, reflecting the awkwardness of
having two instances of /r/ in one word. In Scots, this form glamour, often
6
Why Do Languages Change?
compounded as glamour-might, acquired the sense of ‘enchantment’, ‘magic
spell’, and eventually it came to be applied specifically to a kind of enchantment
upon the eye, so that the victim sees things differently from the way they really
are. Until the early nineteenth century, this sense remained unknown outside
Scotland, but then Sir Walter Scott, a native speaker of Scots, began using it in
his poems and stories. Here is an example from Scott’s poem Lay of the Last
Minstrel:
It had much of glamour might,
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall
Seem tapistry in lordly hall;
And youth seem age, and age seem youth –
All was delusion, nought was truth.
The popularity of Scott’s writings carried this formerly obscure Scots word
throughout the English-speaking world. But the meaning of the word began
rapidly to shift. In Scots, glamour was specifically a kind of supernatural
enchantment. Outside Scotland, other writers began quickly extending the
sense of the word to label any kind of seductive but false charm, the sort of
charm you get from an unscrupulous but skilful manipulator who hopes to take
advantage of you. At this stage, the word was an insult, and one that could be
applied to both sexes.
In the late nineteenth century, however, glamour came to be applied more and
more regularly and finally only to women, apparently in line with the Genesis
view of women as dangerous temptresses out to seduce honourable and upright
men away from the paths of righteousness. For a while, the label was still an
insult, applied to a woman portrayed as a devious siren up to no good, but before
long it lost its negative connotations entirely, possibly because of the more
fictional allure peddled by the Hollywood dream factory. Glamour became a
term of enthusiastic approval, as it still is today. When a gushing magazine
describes a female celebrity as ‘glamorous’, the word expresses unqualified
admiration, and there is no longer the slightest hint that the young lady in the
picture is an unprincipled home-wrecker. Other words must be found for such
an insinuation.
The writer Jeffrey Kacirk has uncovered a particularly interesting use of
glamour in a late Victorian ‘yellow’ novel (a cheap and downmarket work),
with the engaging title Held in Bondage: ‘I know how quickly the glamour fades
in the test of intercourse.’
This sounds a startling sentence to encounter in a Victorian novel, yellow or
otherwise, and you might wonder how it slipped past the censors in a day when
references to sexual intimacy, however discreet, were simply Not Allowed –
and this one doesn’t sound very discreet. The apparent suggestion that a string
How do languages change?
7
of eye-catching young ladies had grievously disappointed the narrator in bed
does not sound at all like the sort of thing that would have amused Her Britannic
Majesty. How could this happen?
Well, of course, we are looking at another change of meaning. In English, as
with most languages, speaking about the act of sex has always proved difficult.
At any given moment, we can usually choose between obscure medical terms
that will scarcely be understood, and words so blunt and coarse they will get our
faces slapped in some circles. As a result, we struggle desperately to find some
clear but delicate way of talking about sexual congress. Polite expressions come
and go in this domain at a brisk pace, since no word can remain wholly delicate
for long.
The word intercourse has existed in English since about 1450, but for
centuries it meant no more than ‘dealings between people’. This sense persisted
into the nineteenth century. That very genteel novelist Jane Austen could write
of her exceedingly genteel characters Miss Anne Elliott and Captain Wentworth
that ‘they had no intercourse but what the commonest civility required’. All that
Jane Austen meant was that Anne and the Captain barely exchanged a word
beyond a grudging ‘good morning’, but a modern reader cannot avoid at the
very least a snigger at the clear suggestion that minimal courtesy in Georgian
England required rather more than it does now.
Why has this happened? In our never-ending quest for polite ways of talking
about sex, somebody coined the clumsy but suitably decent expression sexual
intercourse. But English speakers are not celebrated for their love of cumbersome polysyllabic expressions, and it was no time before this coinage had been
shortened to intercourse. As a result, the word intercourse today is understood
as meaning sex and nothing else, and the word cannot be used in any other way.
Occasionally an unwary writer tries to recover the lost meaning of the word by
turning out something like: The Serbs and the Croats have resumed normal
intercourse. But the result is always surprising, and the older sense of the word
is probably gone for good – or at least until another euphemism for naming the
‘unmentionable’ is found.
What words we use, what words we consider fashionable, can change from
day to day. The variation involved can appear particularly fickle. With other
linguistic features – grammar, sound, and so on – change appears much slower;
yet when it happens, it can still be very striking.
Changes in grammar
Language change is easiest to see in vocabulary, since new words are coined in
their hundreds every year, and since reading old prose will usually turn up a few
dead words. But it is not only words that change: in fact, every aspect of a
language changes over time. Pronunciation changes. Word meanings change.
8
Why Do Languages Change?
And, of course, grammar changes. Let’s look at a few recent changes in the
grammar of English.
A good place to start is the progressive passive, as in My house is being
painted. This form seems wholly unremarkable, but in fact it is a recent
introduction into English. Until only a few generations ago, this form did not
exist and could not be used. A speaker had to say instead either My house is
painting, a form which now seems strange or worse, or My house is painted,
which exists for us but has an entirely different meaning.
In 1662, Samuel Pepys wrote in his famous diary I went to see if any play was
acted. The intended sense is … was being acted, but this form was impossible
for Pepys. About 1839, Charles Dickens wrote in his novel Nicholas Nickleby:
[H]e found that the coach had sunk greatly on one side, though it was still
dragged forward by the horses. The intended sense is … still being dragged
forward, but Dickens, who would have known the new usage, obviously could
not bring himself to use it. Indeed, we know that many people of the time
considered it ‘vulgar’.
Far more commonly, though, we find the other choice. For example:
[T]he King’s statue is making by the Mercers Company. (The sense is is being made.)
(Pepys’s diary, 1660)
At the very time that this dispute was maintaining by the centinel and the drummer – was
the same point debating betwixt a trumpeter and a trumpeter’s wife. (Laurence Sterne,
Tristram Shandy, around 1760)
Whilst the Anthem was singing I was conducted by the Virger to the Pulpit… (James
Woodforde’s diary, 1784)
A code is preparing for the regulation of commerce (J. C. S. Abbot, Napoleon, 1854)
This construction began to recede in the nineteenth century, but it did not die
out, and examples are not rare in the twentieth century:
…his canoe, which was towing behind the long-boat… (Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim, 1900)
Bramante’s palace was still building until 1565. (C. N. Parkinson, 1957)
Today, however, this traditional construction seems strange or impossible,
and we have to say instead is being prepared, was being towed, was still being
built, and so on. The construction My house is painting is probably impossible
for everyone, though a few speakers will still accept it with a handful of verbs.
For example, in place of My book is being reprinted, some people are happy
with My book is reprinting. Indeed, the linguist David Denison, from whose
writings almost all of my examples are taken, found the following in the British
newspaper The Guardian, 22 March 1983: Inside the… room more than a dozen
television cameras were setting up on an elevated stand. I would consider this
How do languages change?
9
construction to be impossible, and I require were being set up, but you may take
a different view.
In spite of the presence of a few lingering traces of the old construction, it is
now effectively dead, while the new construction is now for most of us the only
possibility. This is just one example of recent change in English.
By the way, this change did not pass without comment. Until well into the
nineteenth century, many educated and careful users of English regarded My
house is painting as the only possibility in standard English. When a few
innovating speakers began writing things like My house is being painted, these
linguistic conservatives could not contain their fury. Veins bulging purple from
their foreheads, they attacked the new form as ‘clumsy’, ‘illogical’, ‘confusing’
and ‘monstrous’. But their efforts were in vain: all the people who hated the new
form grew old and died, until eventually the only speakers left alive were those
who had grown up with the new form and considered it normal.
For some centuries now, English has had a construction called the perfect.
Very often, the perfect is constructed by placing the auxiliary have in front of the
verb. Examples: I have finished dinner; Susie has written a book. However, with
intransitive verbs (those taking no object), earlier English frequently used, not
have, but be. The common forms were therefore as follows: Susie is arrived; My
notes are disappeared.
For example, Shakespeare’s play Much Ado About Nothing, written about
1599, has this: …yet Benedicke was such another, and now is he become a man.
This form has for several centuries been gradually receding in favour of the have
perfect, but the process was slow. Even as late as 1849, we find Charlotte Brontë
writing this in her novel Shirley: As it cleared away he looked again for the
soldiers, but they were vanished.
Forms like she is arrived and they are vanished are effectively dead for most
English speakers today, at least in ordinary speech (although this may be hidden
by pronunciation) and writing; the sole exceptions being Shetland dialect and a
few other remote varieties. But you will doubtless recognise such usages in
archaic English, perhaps most obviously in religious texts, where the archaic
construction is sometimes maintained for solemn effect, as in He is risen. A few
literary writers may occasionally write something like they were vanished for
effect, though such archaising styles seem to enjoy little popularity among
today’s streetwise novelists.
But there is one special case. Even though nobody says She is come any more,
everyone is happy to say She is gone. This fossilised form is confined to the
single verb go, and is now functionally distinct from the regular perfect with
have: She is gone does not mean quite the same as She has gone. And note that
the form with is cannot be extended: we can say She has gone home, but not She
is gone home. Today, She is gone is just another way of saying She’s not here,
and that’s it. Once again, English grammar has changed.
10
Why Do Languages Change?
Changes in grammar, like all linguistic changes, are happening all the time.
At every moment, including this moment, every language is in the middle of a
number of grammatical changes. Take a look at a few examples, and decide
what you think of each:
(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
(5)
(6)
(7)
(8)
(9)
I recommend you to take the job.
He demanded that the agitators were arrested.
This is just between you and I.
Due to the rain, we had to cancel the picnic.
This paper was written by Susie and myself.
Please come between eight a.m. to six p.m.
If he’d’ve played, we would have won.
He makes tedious jokes about mother-in-laws.
Having said that, there is no feasible alternative.
Every one of these examples was formerly impossible for all speakers, but every
one of them is now perfectly normal for many speakers today – though not for all
speakers. Every one represents a grammatical form or construction which was
formerly absent from the language but which is now frequent and prominent in
many or all parts of the English-speaking world. In each case, we are probably
looking at a grammatical change in progress, and it may be only a matter of time
before each is accepted by practically everyone as normal English grammar.
Of course, if your tastes are conservative, you may consider some of my
examples to be unspeakably slovenly and ignorant. I don’t much care for most
of them myself. But remember what happened to all those conservatives who
railed against My house is being painted.
On the other hand, we should realise that not all of these changes are recent
ones. The constructions illustrated in examples (3) and (7) above have been
recorded in writing for centuries, and they have apparently been frequent in
speech for at least as long. So far, however, they have not been accepted as part
of Standard English – that is, they are not considered to belong to that set of
forms, usages and constructions which all educated people agree are appropriate
in the most careful styles of speech and writing.
I will close this section by mentioning one of the most dramatic changes in
English grammar of recent years. The construction is so new that it doesn’t yet
have an accepted name, but I’ll call it the I’m like construction. This novel
construction has recently appeared in the speech of young people; it seems to
have originated in the USA, but it can now be heard in almost every Englishspeaking country. It is a way of relating narratives, and it is rather different from
more traditional ways of doing this. An example: Well, I’m standing there, like
‘What’s going on?’, and he’s like ‘Can I put my arm around you?’, and I’m like
‘Yuck! What a pig!’
I was raised in the USA, and I don’t think I ever heard this construction used
before I reached the age of twenty-five or so. Today, I can’t get through a day
How do languages change?
11
without hearing it. It seems likely that this innovation will outlive us all, and
become a regular part of the grammar of spoken English, at least.
The changing sounds of the language
The pronunciation of English has been changing steadily and ceaselessly for as
long as the language has existed. Quite apart from the difficulties of vocabulary
and grammar, the pronunciation of English in the past would be wholly unintelligible to us, if we could hear it. We could no more understand the pronunciation of King Alfred the Great (died 899) than we can understand modern
Norwegian, and the pronunciation of the poet Geoffrey Chaucer (died 1400)
would not be a lot easier. William Shakespeare (died 1616) is quite a bit closer to
us in time: we have little trouble reading what he wrote, but nevertheless many
specialists believe we would not be able to understand his speech, if we could
hear it: his pronunciation was just too different from modern ones.
After English was carried across the Atlantic to North America in the
seventeenth century, pronunciation, like every other aspect of the language,
continued to change on both sides of the water. By the early nineteenth century,
both Americans and Britons were commenting on the prominent ‘accent’ used
by the people on the other side of the Atlantic. When Hollywood movies with
sound were first shown in Britain in the 1930s, British audiences found them
hard to understand: most Britons had never heard American accents, and they
were bewildered by their first exposure to American speech. Americans, of
course, do not find British accents any easier at first encounter, not even BBC
accents.
Our archaic spelling system gives us a few clues about earlier pronunciation.
Take the word knight. Why does it have such an eccentric spelling? Because it
was formerly pronounced just as this spelling suggests: it began with a /k/
sound, followed by an /n/, followed by the vowel of sit, followed by a breathy
consonant like the one spelled <ch> in the Scottish word loch, followed by a /t/.
The spelling therefore made perfect sense – once. But, since then, two of the
consonants have disappeared completely, while the vowel has changed its
nature greatly.
Let’s look at just a few of the recent changes in English pronunciation,
starting with /r/-dropping.
Until relatively recently, all English speakers pronounced a consonant /r/ in
every position in which our spelling has the letter <r>. So, not only was /r/
present in red and cream, it was also present in far, arm, dark and bird. But then,
in the seventeenth or early eighteenth century, some people in the southeast of
England began to ‘drop’ their /r/s whenever those /r/s were not followed by a
vowel. As a result, in this style of speech, /r/ was retained in red and cream, but it
disappeared from the other four words. In such /r/-dropping speech – which is
12
Why Do Languages Change?
known technically as non-rhotic speech – farther sounds just like father, and
star rhymes perfectly with Shah. In many non-rhotic varieties (though not in
all), court is further pronounced just like caught.
This new style of pronunciation arose among working-class speakers in the
metropolitan London area, and for a long time it was condemned as substandard and ignorant: educated speakers were careful to retain their /r/s in all
positions, and to refrain from the vulgar habit of dropping them. Writers on
language inveighed against this sloppy habit of dropping one’s /r/s. John Keats
(1795–1821), who rhymed non-rhotically, was accused of being a ‘Cockney’ by
his contemporaries.
In spite of such condemnation, this /r/-dropping continued to spread – not
only horizontally, into new territory, but also vertically, up the social scale,
possibly because it was considered fashionable or perhaps even a little daring.
With increasing frequency, the dropping of /r/ could be heard in the speech of
posh people who prided themselves on their elegant speech. Finally, the condemnation ceased, and /r/-dropping came to be fully accepted as a feature of
elegant speech in England. In fact, for several generations now, it has been
essential to drop your /r/s in England if you want to sound elegant. If you
pronounce all your /r/s, as many people still do, especially in the southwest of
England, then you will sound quaint and rustic, and perhaps even comical.
This newly fashionable dropping of /r/s has spread into the English of Wales
and of the Southern Hemisphere countries. It has failed to spread into Scotland
or Ireland, both of which retain the historical /r/s in all positions. To some
extent, /r/-dropping managed to spread to the east coast of the United States, but
most Americans and Canadians continue to pronounce their /r/s, and /r/dropping is now losing ground on the east coast, where it is beginning to be
perceived as vulgar.
Vowels change even faster than consonants. In fact, English vowels have
been so unstable during the last few centuries that I might pick out any of a very
large number of stories to tell. Here’s one.
By about 1700, the assorted dramatic developments that had been affecting
the English vowel system for some 300 years had brought about a peculiar and
uncomfortable state of affairs. There were two vowels in the language which
were linguistically different but which were phonetically almost identical. The
first vowel appeared in such words as cot and don, while the second appeared in
caught and dawn. The phonetic difference between the two vowels was minute –
and a minute difference between two vowels that are supposed to be distinguishing pairs of words like cot and caught is not comfortable. We might therefore
suppose that something would happen to relieve the discomfort.
And something did happen. Today there is perhaps no variety of English
anywhere in the world in which the vowels of cot and caught are still distinguished only by the tiny difference that existed 300 years ago. Inevitably,
How do languages change?
13
however, different regional varieties of English found their own solutions to the
problem, and those solutions were often quite different.
In much of England, the solution adopted for keeping the vowels of cot and
caught apart was to move the vowel of caught. This vowel was moved upwards
in the mouth, away from the vowel of cot, so that caught began to sound quite
different from cot. So far, excellent, but now we have another problem: the
vowel of caught begins to sound quite a bit like the vowel of coat, especially as
it is still pronounced in Scotland. Confusing another pair of vowels is not
progress, and so further steps are necessary. In England, the obvious solution
was adopted: the vowel of coat was also moved, this time so as to take it away
from its former phonetic value, now being encroached on by the incoming
vowel of caught.
So far, then, we have caught moving away from cot and towards coat; and
we likewise have coat moving away in turn, to get out of the way. But this
further movement has a further consequence, as you’ve probably surmised:
the vowel of coat, in moving, has to move towards some other existing
vowel. That vowel is the vowel of Kate, and in fact coat has been moving
towards Kate in England, though it has so far moved only part way towards the
latter.
So, the Londoners have solved the problem of the tiny distance between the
cot vowel and the caught vowel, and they have done it while keeping all their
vowels distinct. The price they have paid is that they have been forced to change
the pronunciations of two vowels, the vowel of caught and the vowel of coat,
and that they have wound up with the vowels of coat and Kate much closer
together than they used to be.
These changes are very noticeable to the ear of an English speaker who has
not participated in them. Take an American speaker, since none of this has
happened in American English. When an American listens to an Englishman, he
hears some surprising vowels. The Englishman’s cot, which has not changed
much, sounds to the American rather like his own caught, for reasons to be
explained shortly. The Londoner’s caught, of course, sounds to the American
like his own coat, and the Londoner’s coat sounds to the American uncomfortably like Kate.
In most varieties of American English, the solution adopted to the original
problem was entirely different. The vowel of caught did not move at all, and
therefore there was no need to move the vowel of coat, either, and so this did
not approach the vowel of Kate. The American solution was to move the other
of the original two problem vowels: the vowel of cot. In American pronunciation, the cot vowel was moved away from the caught vowel and actually
merged with the vowel of cart. In other words, Americans abandoned the
historical difference between the vowel of cot and the vowel of cart, a difference which is still retained today in England.
14
Why Do Languages Change?
Presence of cot /caught merger
Figure 1.1 The cot/caught merger
But cot did not become identical to cart for Americans, because Americans
still pronounce their /r/s, and so cart differs from cot in containing an /r/.
Nevertheless, an American’s pronunciation of cot sounds strikingly like an
Englishman’s pronunciation of cart.
So, speakers in England solved the problem by moving the vowel of caught,
while Americans solved it by moving the vowel of cot, in both cases with
further consequences. But there was a third resolution to the original problem,
which was adopted in both Scotland and Canada. That solution was the simplest
one possible: the Scots and the Canadians simply abandoned the effort of trying
to keep the two vowels distinct, and they merged the two vowels into one. As a
result, a Scot or a Canadian pronounces cot and caught identically, and likewise
don and dawn, and all other such pairs. For native speakers of these varieties no
particular problems have been encountered by this merger, interestingly.
All other areas of the English-speaking world have adopted one of these three
solutions, and so you might think that the problem was solved and gone. But
there is a complication in the United States. Several generations ago, Americans
solved the problem of keeping the two similar vowels apart by moving the cot
vowel to a new position. That, you might think, should have been that. But not
so. Just in the last few years, there has been a new development with these
vowels in the USA: many speakers have suddenly opted for the Canadian
solution, and lost the difference between cot and caught altogether. This new
type of pronunciation – new in America, that is – has already taken over the
entire western half of the USA, apart from metropolitan San Francisco and Los
Angeles, where the distinction is retained, and now the new style is spreading
rapidly across the Midwest into Pennsylvania. The map in Figure 1.1 shows the
spread of the new pronunciation a few years ago; by now it has doubtless
extended into further territory.
How do languages change?
15
Another recent change in vowels is a rather elaborate set of changes which are
now happening in northern American cities like Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland
and Buffalo. This set of changes has been dubbed the Northern Cities Shift, and
it is an example of a chain shift, in which the changing sounds follow one
another. Six vowels are involved. The vowel of cat is shifting towards the
vowel of kit. Likewise, cot is shifting towards cat; caught is shifting towards
cot; bud is shifting towards bawd; bed is shifting towards bud; and bid is
shifting towards bed.
As a result of all this vowel-shifting, a speaker who has undergone the shift
can be quite hard to understand for another American speaker who has not
undergone it, and mishearings are frequent. When a non-shifter listens to a
shifter, Ann sounds like Ian; socks sounds like sax; chalk sounds like chock; bus
sounds like boss; steady sounds like study; and hid sounds like head. Naturally,
it can be quite a challenge for the listener to decipher something like this: Ian bot
some sacks at the Mahl, but she luft ’em an the boss.
Of course, it is not only American English which is busily rearranging its
vowels at the moment. A number of vowel changes are also going on in British
English. Here is just one example.
In England, the most prestigious kind of accent has for more than a century
been Received Pronunciation, or RP. RP is a minority accent, but it is the accent
traditionally used by the royal family, by Oxbridge professors, by senior army
officers and churchmen, and by barristers and High Court judges. RP is
currently undergoing several vowel shifts, and one of these poses potential
problems: the vowel of cat and the vowel of cut, which are historically very
different, and still are in most accents, are moving very close together – so close
together that they can be almost indistinguishable in an RP accent.
Pronunciation change, like all language change, happens in even the most
elegant and prestigious varieties of a language. No language is immune to
change, and no variety is immune.
Changes in pronunciation can happen with considerable speed. Consider
/hw/. Historically, English had a number of words beginning with the sequence
of consonants /hw/, curiously spelled <wh> since the Middle Ages. This
sequence was pronounced very differently from plain /w/, and so whine
sounded different from wine, whales from Wales, which from witch, where
from wear, wheel from weal, and so on.
But then the sound /h/ began to be lost from /hw/, which was therefore
reduced to plain /w/. As a result, whine began to sound just like wine, and so
on, for all the other pairs. This change happened first in England. By the end of
the nineteenth century, there were very few people in England who were still
making a difference in pronunciation between whales and Wales. Nevertheless,
there continued to be a kind of dim folk-memory that making the difference was
elegant, and teachers of elocution in England continued to try to teach their
16
Why Do Languages Change?
charges to make the difference until well into the twentieth century – even
though there were perhaps no speakers left alive in England who had made the
distinction in childhood.
This new style of pronunciation was exported to the Commonwealth, and
particularly to the Southern Hemisphere countries. According to the most recent
work I have seen, /hw/ is now completely gone in Australia and in South Africa,
and it is found among no more than a handful of speakers on the South Island of
New Zealand.
In great contrast, the sequence /hw/ is still rock-solid in Scotland and in
Ireland, and all Scottish and Irish speakers distinguish pairs like whine and wine
clearly and consistently. Or at least all adults do. A couple of years ago, a
linguist reported on an electronic list that he had heard several Scottish children
who appeared to lack /hw/ altogether, even though they otherwise had conspicuously Scottish accents. Only time will tell whether this observation was an
oddity or the thin end of the wedge. Belfast, in northeastern Ireland, is unique on
that island in having /w/ in <wh> words. This is a working-class rather
than English-initiated change: teachers, often from the counties around the
city where the distinction continues to be made, vainly attempt to reinstate the
split.
In North America, the situation is more complicated. When I was growing up
in a rural part of the USA, in the 1950s, practically everybody retained /hw/. I
learned it in childhood; I grew up with it; and I still have it today. But no sooner
had I acquired it for life when it began to disappear as something children
learned. All of my younger siblings lack /hw/ entirely, and they pronounce
whine just like wine – which I cannot do. My mother noticed this change, and
she described it as ‘sloppy’. But, sloppy or not, the loss of the /h/ in /hw/ has
spread across the United States with astounding speed, and today there is
practically no one in that country under the age of fifty or so who still retains
the difference between whine and wine.
I still have the difference, but having it marks me out as almost unspeakably
old-fashioned. Recently my university department appointed another American,
a couple of decades younger than I am. She tells me that she finds the use of
/hw/ ‘pretentious’. In the space of my own lifetime, I have gone from being a
perfectly normal speaker, indistinguishable from everybody else, to being a
pretentious old fossil.
As I write these words, I am only in my fifties, but already slightly younger
people are finding my speech strange. No doubt, in twenty years time, people
who speak like me will sound bizarre to young people. I’m not doing anything
much to my speech, but the language is changing relentlessly away from the
English I grew up with. And that is why old people talk funny.
This looks like a logical place to end the chapter, but I can’t resist adding a
section on one more recent change in English, one which is so striking and
How do languages change?
17
dramatic that everybody has noticed it, and one that has seemingly come out of
nowhere to take over the world in the space of a few years.
I suppose you speak uptalk?
Traditionally in English, as in most languages, the pitch of our voice falls at the
end of a statement but rises at the end of a question. For example, if I say You’re
going out tonight, with falling intonation, this is a statement. However, if I say
You’re going out tonight?, with rising intonation, this is a question, even though
I haven’t bothered with any of the formal paraphernalia of questions, as in Are
you going out tonight?
That’s the way things have been practically for ever. But, in the last few years,
we have suddenly come face to face with a stunning new pattern: the use of
rising intonation in statements. In this new style, an utterance like I bought a
new skirt?, with strongly rising intonation, is a simple statement, and not a
question, even though it sounds like a question.
This rising intonation in statements has been dubbed by linguists high-rise
terminals, or HRT. But, since this initialism is unfortunate for people acquainted
with hormone replacement therapy, I will call it by its zippy informal name:
uptalk.
Uptalk is especially prominent in the USA, Australia and New Zealand, but it
is now far from rare elsewhere, and it seems to be spreading rapidly. It has only
attracted attention from journalists and the general public in the last few years,
though academic linguists were already writing about it in the 1980s, and there
is one report of it from as early as 1965, though that report describes it as an
aberration produced by nervous speakers in interviews.
The oldest uptalking speakers so far discovered were born in the mid to late
1950s, and so uptalk is often thought to have come into existence shortly after
this time – perhaps in the 1960s. But few uptalkers are this old. Most are much
younger, and the great majority of them are teenagers.
Nobody knows where uptalk began. Some people think it started in
California, where it is certainly extremely prominent. Others think it began in
Australia, where it is just as conspicuous. One person has even suggested
Ireland as the source. But, wherever it started, it has spread like the proverbial
wildfire. Uptalk is very noticeable in American TV shows like Friends and in
Australian soap operas like Home and Away, and quite a few people think these
popular programmes have been helping to spread uptalk – though not everyone
is convinced that features of speech can be so easily acquired from television
shows.
But acquired easily it often is. The British journalist Matt Seaton, writing in
The Guardian (21 September 2001), described what happened when he took his
children on holiday to the USA. Both had been raised in London, and both
18
Why Do Languages Change?
spoke only the vernacular London form called ‘Estuary English’, with no trace
of uptalk. After only several days at an American summer camp, his daughter
was responding to ‘So what did you do today?’ as follows. ‘Well, we went
canoeing on the lake? Which was, like, really really fun? And then we had
storytelling in the barn? And we all had to tell a story about, like, where we’re
from or our family or something?’
In short, his daughter had acquired and mastered uptalk almost instantly,
along with several other features of American speech. In great contrast, Seaton’s
son never acquired uptalk at all. This is consistent with the observation, often
made, that uptalk is far more prevalent among females than among males –
though there are certainly some males who have it.
The linguist Deborah Tannen has suggested that uptalk is largely a teenage
phenomenon, a feature adopted by teenagers as a badge of identity but then
abandoned after adolescence is over. Perhaps, but it is clear that not all speakers
abandon uptalk upon reaching maturity. I recently heard a lecture by a North
American academic in her forties who had the fiercest case of uptalk I have ever
heard. She didn’t just raise her voice at the end of a sentence: she raised it at the
end of each phrase. As a result, her lecture sounded rather like this. ‘I’ve been
making a study? of the use of connective words? like however and though? in
informal conversations?’ And so on. It took me quite a while to adjust my ears to
this, so that I could take in the content of her talk.
It is too early to tell what the fate of uptalk will be. Perhaps it is a passing fad
which will die out. Perhaps it will hang around in the language as a feature of
adolescent speech, or as an idiosyncrasy of certain people. Or perhaps it will
become the norm in English, and the English teachers of the future will have to
teach it to foreign learners who want to sound as much as possible like native
speakers. Already, Matt Seaton tells us, the British actor Kate Lock, who has a
sideline in recording English language-teaching tapes, is finding herself asked
to produce tapes with uptalk built in.
The conclusion for this chapter is a simple one: languages are always
changing. A dead language – a language which has died out and is no longer
used – does not change any more. But a living language – a language which is
still being learned by children – is always changing. In this book we will discuss
many of these processes in greater depth, developing our understanding of what
factors cause and channel each change.
2
Why are languages always changing?
Some myths
We saw in the last chapter that languages are always changing. A rather more
complex question is: ‘why?’ People have been speculating about this for about
as long as they have been aware of language change. Some ideas are unlikely,
perhaps even absurd, however. Sadly these regularly turn up in popular discussions of language change.
One idea is that languages change because their speakers have particular
physical characteristics: short tongues, or thick lips, or gappy teeth, or something else in this vein. This is of course nonsense: the size of your tongue has no
more to do with the way you speak than has the size of your feet. But that
doesn’t stop people making this kind of argument.
Several decades ago, an enthusiastic scholar named L. F. Brosnahan became
obsessed with dental fricatives: the hissing and buzzing noises produced by
putting the tongue onto or between the teeth. There are two dental fricatives in
English, both spelled <th> the one in thin, for which the phonetic symbol is [θ],
and the one in this, for which the symbol is [ð]. In contemporary Europe, dental
fricatives occur in only a few languages, all of them curiously spread out around
the watery margins of the continent: Icelandic, English, Welsh, Castilian
Spanish, Albanian and Greek. In addition, these sounds were formerly present
also in the ancestors of German, Dutch, Norwegian, Swedish and Danish, in
Irish and Scottish Gaelic, among others.
Brosnahan observed that the edges of Europe are, on the whole, the areas in
which type O blood is most frequent. So, he put forward his big idea. He
suggested that type O blood makes it easy to pronounce dental fricatives,
while types A and B blood make dental fricatives very hard to pronounce.
In his hypothesis, then, ancient Europe was full of people with type O blood,
speaking languages rich in dental fricatives. Over time, however, waves of
immigrants poured into Europe from Asia. These immigrants had blood of
types A and B, and so, as their blood types began to swamp the earlier
type O, dental fricatives began to disappear from the languages of Europe,
until today these sounds survive only in a few languages along the edges,
where the percentage of the earlier type O blood is still high enough to permit
the existence of dental fricatives.
19
20
Why Do Languages Change?
This correlation may look impressive at first. But there is a problem. The
living language which has beyond question been spoken in western Europe for
longer than any other is Basque. And the Basques, it was discovered long ago,
have the highest percentage of type O blood in Europe and perhaps the highest
in the world. Accordingly, we should expect the Basque language to be particularly full of dental fricatives.
But Basque has no dental fricatives at all, and the evidence suggests that it
has had no dental fricatives for thousands of years. Moreover, when native
speakers of Basque have in the past learned to speak the neighbouring
language Castilian Spanish, they have found themselves unable to pronounce
the dental fricatives of that language, representing them with the /s/ and /z/
sounds English speakers associate with the accent of a French speaker who
says I sink zat … when trying to produce I think that …
This appears to be an insuperable problem for Brosnahan’s exciting hypothesis. But he didn’t see it that way. In his book, he dealt with it in surprising
fashion, appealing to the logical technique that mathematicians call ‘proof by
intimidation’: he simply declared firmly that the Basque language did have
dental fricatives after all, and carried on presenting his case, a case which was
fatally flawed. This view is only intensified by our awareness that the English
of the United States of America – spoken by people of almost every ethnic
origin imaginable – is as likely to have dental fricatives as the varieties of
English still spoken on the European periphery. Like shoe size, blood type
has no effect on anyone’s language, and pursuing the linguistic consequences
of blood types or of nose shapes is a waste of time at best. At worst, it can
easily become offensive and even dangerous.
Another myth holds that certain kinds of terrain or weather favour certain
kinds of structural features in languages, and so languages tend to change in
order to conform better to their location.
A prominent example of this kind of thinking concerns the nasal vowels of
French. Unlike most western European languages, French has a set of distinctively nasalised vowels: four in conservative, three in less conservative
accents. The traditional four nasal vowels are represented in un bon vin
blanc, ‘a good white wine’. French is a direct descendant of Latin, which
had no nasal vowels, and most of the closest relatives of French today lack
nasal vowels. So why does French have them?
Several popular books put forward the following suggestion: Standard
French developed in the region of Paris, and Paris is famously damp and
foggy. Because of the damp, foggy climate, French speakers suffer constantly
from head colds; head colds make the victims’ speech more nasal; and so the
damp French climate caused the nasal vowels to appear in French.
Well, I really don’t know if it’s true that Paris is damper or foggier than
anywhere else. Certainly the English city of Brighton, where I live, seems to
Why are languages always changing?
21
have enough damp, foggy weather to compete for any championship that may
be going, and yet the English of Brighton contains no nasal vowels. However,
the argument is even more worrying than this.
To start with, it is simply not true that a head cold makes your voice more
nasal. This widely held but badly confused view is in fact the very opposite of
the truth: a head cold makes your speech less nasal than it normally is. When
you have a head cold, you have difficulty in pronouncing nasal sounds like [m]
and [n], and a word like men comes out sounding quite a bit like bed. This
‘explanation’ of the French nasal vowels, therefore, actually predicts that
French should acquire no nasal vowels at all, and if anything that French should
lose its nasal consonants – which of course it has not done.
But whatever may be the truth about the Parisian climate, it is a fact that
another modern descendant of Latin has also acquired nasal vowels. This is
Portuguese, spoken in warm, dry Portugal, where there is little hope of appealing to fog or dampness.
All such appeals to geography are likewise doomed. There is absolutely
nothing that is generally true of the languages spoken in mountains, or on
islands, or in the tropics, or in dry areas, or in any kind of terrain or climate
you can think of. Pick a linguistic feature, and you will find that it occurs in
languages in every kind of terrain. For example, astounding clusters (sequences) of consonants are found in Georgian, spoken in the rugged mountains of the
Caucasus, but also in several languages spoken in the coastal plain of British
Columbia. Pick a kind of terrain, and you will find that the languages spoken in
that terrain have nothing special in common. For example, some languages
spoken in deserts have grammatical gender, while others do not.
A third myth is stadialism. According to stadialism, each human culture
must move step by step through a rigid series of stages, and the language of
each culture at each moment must reflect the stage of culture which it has so far
reached. This idea was popular in nineteenth-century Europe, where it was
commonly assumed that every culture, and every language, was striving for
perfection – a perfection which had so far been achieved, of course, only by
European cultures and languages. In this view, anybody who was different
from Europeans was ipso facto inferior to Europeans, and still had a long
way to go. Since stadialism is transparently no more than a version of racism,
I will not pursue it further here, except to warn you against taking stadial
ideas seriously if you happen to come across them. Stadialism is grossly
false, and there is no observable tendency for languages to change in one
direction rather than in another.
You may doubt this. Perhaps you are one of those people who believe that
languages which undergo change must become ‘simpler’ as a result. Perhaps
you are aware that Ancient Greek, Classical Latin and Old English all had
batteries of complicated grammatical endings, while their modern descendants
22
Why Do Languages Change?
have fewer and simpler endings. This observation is broadly true for these
particular languages, but it is not generally true that language change implies
simplification – far from it.
To start with, grammatical endings are only one aspect of linguistic structure.
English and French may have fewer endings than their ancestors, but both of
them have pronunciations which are much more complicated and difficult
than what was present in the ancestors. And the syntax of Modern English
exhibits complex constructions which had no parallel in the English of a
thousand years ago. Just ponder an example like this one: The amphora,
around the inside of the rim of which mysterious markings have recently
been found to have been inscribed with some kind of metal tool, will be taken
apart in order to be examined with suitable instruments. There is nothing in
Beowulf of this level of syntactic complexity, although the building blocks
of Old English were more complex.
In fact, it is not even true that languages always lose grammatical endings, or
simplify their endings. Finnish and Hungarian, for example, are descended from
a common ancestor spoken several thousand years ago. Both of these languages
have acquired a very large number of grammatical endings which did not exist
in their ancestor, and these endings have moreover acquired quite a variety of
complications in their forms. A reference grammar of Hungarian is obliged to
devote large amounts of space to listing the profusion of grammatical endings
and the several forms that each ending can assume, and to writing rules for the
use of all these things – practically all of which have appeared in Hungarian
since its ancestor separated from the ancestor of Finnish several millennia ago.
In fact, languages acquire new endings just as often as they lose old ones, and
they acquire complications in their endings just as often as they simplify.
If this were not so, then we would have to believe that the first languages ever
created by our earliest human ancestors, perhaps 200,000 years ago, must have
been staggeringly complex monstrosities, far more Byzantine in their structures
than anything we can hear on the planet today, and that 2,000 centuries of
human existence have been devoted to simplifying these first grotesque
attempts at language. This is preposterous. As we will see in Chapter 8,
languages which are newly created by people are – just as you would expect –
simple and highly regular, with a distinct lack of unnecessary complications.
All these proposals are bad ideas. But is it possible to develop satisfactory
explanations for language change?
Changes in the world
As we saw in Chapter 1, all languages are constantly changing because of
changes in technology. We didn’t, for instance, need a word for ‘television’ until
one was invented. Given the speed of technological development in the last two
Why are languages always changing?
23
centuries, it is unsurprising that change of this type has been particularly
prevalent. Given human ingenuity, however, it is probable that this has always
been the case – back to the wheel and beyond.
But the world is not changed only by engineers. Not so many years ago,
hardly any English speakers knew the words cappuccino and latte, but today
many of us can’t imagine getting through the day without these words. Most of
us make room in our lives (and stomachs) for ciabatta, and vindaloo, and
tiramisu, and crème caramel, and tzatziki, and sushi, and döner kebab, and
osso bucco, and sangría, and dim sum, and countless other items of food
and drink which I assure you my parents never heard of.
In fact, in order to accommodate changes in society, English speakers are
happy to accept useful words from wherever they can find them. Among our
recent borrowings are ombudsman from Swedish, salsa from Cuban Spanish,
intifada from Palestinian Arabic, sauna from Finnish, and karaoke from
Japanese, joining such earlier ones as savoir-faire from French, kindergarten
from German, intermezzo from Italian, kiosk from Turkish, and hurricane from
the Taino language of Haiti.
So: culture changes; the way we order our lives changes. And language has to
change with them. But this cannot be the sole explanation for change.
Laziness?
It is widely suspected by the general public that a great deal of language change
comes about because of sheer laziness, or, if you prefer, that all-too-familiar
human habit of sloppiness. Well, it is true that we humans are rather impatient
creatures, and we often prefer briefer expressions to longer ones. We saw in the
last chapter that compact disc has been shortened to CD, for instance. In similar
ways, telephone has been shortened to phone, gymnasium to gym, influenza to
flu, British Broadcasting Corporation to BBC, situation comedy to sitcom,
human beings to humans, and so on. Much of this is easy to understand. Who
in their right mind would prefer to work through the longer forms all the time?
Does anybody really want to say Federal Bureau of Investigation more than
about twice in a lifetime, when FBI is available? And how many people can
remember that the full name of the insecticide DDT is the mouth-filling
dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane?
Words and phrases which we use constantly are particularly likely to be
shortened in one way or another. The former God be with you has been
irreversibly reduced to good-bye, and the equivalent French au revoir is often
abbreviated to ’voir. The Germans and the Italians often give up on their own
auf Wiedersehen and arrividerci, and introduce the new, shorter tschüss and
ciao instead. English speakers shorten the original goodbye to bye! in essentially the same process.
24
Why Do Languages Change?
Words which acquire a grammatical function are particularly likely to be
reduced. Consider English will. Formerly, this was an ordinary verb meaning
‘want’, and an utterance like I will go to Paris meant literally ‘I want to go to
Paris’. But in the course of the Middle Ages the word gradually lost its sense of
‘want’, and it became merely a grammatical device for marking future time in
certain types of contexts – and the result has been that will is now commonly
reduced to ’ll, as in I’ll go to Paris. Very many of the grammatical endings in
English and in other languages were once independent words, but their reduction to grammatical functions caused them also to be reduced in bulk to mere
endings. A splendid example from English is the adverbial ending -ly, as in
slowly and happily, which was originally the word like. Early English speakers
said, literally, She did it slow-like, but we have long since reduced this to She
did it slowly.
So, we can point to our natural impatience as a reason for the shortening of
longer words and expressions which become everyday items or grammatical
devices. But this explanation can account for only a small number of shortenings, and not for anything more. There are also long-term examples of
survivals, such as the use of the plural men for man, which argue against this
viewpoint. Are there any other simple explanations for change?
Emphasis and clarity
An important point about language change is that very often the occurrence of
one change makes another change more likely. This can happen for several
reasons.
More often than not, changes in pronunciation make words shorter than
they used to be. Old English hlaford and hlæfdige have developed into modern
lord and lady, and Old English heafod has become head. Rather more dramatically, Latin Augustus ‘August’ has been reduced in French to something
which is spelled août but which in fact is pronounced just /u/ – one vowel,
and nothing else. And Latin aqua ‘water’ has likewise turned into a French
word written eau but pronounced /o/ – again with a solitary vowel, and no
consonant sound to be heard.
It would appear that we are in some danger of allowing our words to be
reduced to nothing. If every word in the language is eventually reduced in
pronunciation to something like /u/ or /o/ then we will no longer be able to
understand one another’s speech – and choosing to write these tiny words with
silent letters will not help. What can be done?
One obvious solution is to reinforce our words when they become unappealingly short. Let’s look at an example, also from French.
In early Latin, ‘today’ was expressed by the phrase *hoc die, literally ‘on this
day’, where the asterisk shows that this form is not recorded but has been
Why are languages always changing?
25
reconstructed by linguists. By the time of Classical Latin, this phrase had
coalesced into a single word, hodie, with the loss of one consonant in the
process.
By the time of the first Roman emperor, no Latin speaker was pronouncing
aitches any more. Hodie was now being pronounced odie, even though educated
people kept on writing the aitches because of the prestige of earlier writers.
In Paris, there were further changes in pronunciation, and in particular
more sounds were lost. In hodie, the sound /d/ disappeared, and after a while
speakers of the Parisian variety of Latin, which was beginning to be called
‘French’, were writing their word for ‘today’ as hui, though that <h> was only
an act of obeisance to the ‘mother’ language, and what people were really
saying could have been written ui.
It appears that speakers of French were getting a little uncomfortable uttering
such a small noise to say ‘today’. So, they responded by creating a more
substantial way of expressing that concept. What they came up with was the
orotund phrase au jour d’hui, which is literally ‘on the day of today’. This
certainly solved the problem, and people began using this heavy expression
more and more often, until finally nobody was saying just plain hui any more at
all. Today the only possible way of saying ‘today’ in French is aujourd’hui,
which is now written as a single word, and the former hui is dead and buried.
Almost inevitably, this word can be reduced to something like dwee in colloquial speech.
Very likely you know somebody who is constitutionally incapable of uttering
the little English word now and who replaces it on every occasion with the
mouth-filling sequence at this moment in time. So far, this remains a pompous
piece of bureaucrat-speak, inveighed against by usage handbooks everywhere,
but there is no guarantee that it will not one day displace its shorter equivalent
altogether, much as has happened in French.
Sometimes this quest for clarity has been resolved in more dramatic fashion.
Old English had the two verbs lætan ‘permit, allow’ and lettan ‘hinder,
obstruct’. After some routine changes in the pronunciation of the language,
both these verbs wound up being pronounced identically, as let. This, of course,
was problematical: permitting something is practically the opposite of obstructing it, and any speaker who used one of these verbs was in grave danger of being
badly misunderstood. From the fifteenth century on, therefore, speakers took
steps: they simply stopped using the verb let meaning ‘obstruct’, and they used
only let meaning ‘permit’. The verb meaning ‘obstruct’ disappeared from the
language altogether, thus solving the problem. Today this ancient verb survives
only in the form of its related noun let, in the legal phrase without let or
hindrance, the now archaic French Letter for ‘condom’ and as a technical
term for a replayed point resulting from an obstruction in the games of tennis
and squash.
26
Why Do Languages Change?
This desire to avoid ambiguity can bring about all sorts of intriguing changes.
Among the pronouns in Old English were he ‘he’, heo ‘she’ and hi ‘they’. With
the passage of time, the typical English weakening of final syllables made these
three pronouns uncomfortably similar in pronunciation. Speakers of English a
little less than a thousand years ago took steps to resolve this.
On the one hand, the form heo was replaced by a different form, the one that
has come down to us as she. The origin of this innovation is obscure, but is
likely to have developed via the pronunciation of hie, the ‘accusative’ form of
the word, by Norse speakers in the north of England during the Viking period.
While Old English had ‘falling’ diphthongs, with the stress on the first element
(/i/ on this occasion), Old Norse had ‘rising’ ones, with stress on the second (/e/
on this occasion). The original /hi/ therefore became /hj/, as found in words like
huge and Hugh. You may have noticed that most people do not pronounce the
/h/ and the /j/ independently of each other; instead, a sound represented as [ç] by
phoneticists, a buzzing and hissing noise pronounced with your tongue near
your hard palate, is produced. There are a number of English speakers today –
most notably from western Scotland – who find this sound almost impossible to
pronounce at the start of words. Instead, they use /∫/, a similar sound found in
words like sheep. In these dialects, people called Hugh are regularly called
Shughie or Shug, for instance. There is evidence that a similar change took place
in northern England about a thousand years ago. Over time, the she form spread
into central and southern England. Remnants of the original form can be found,
however, in the traditional dialects of the midlands and south of England, where
‘she’ is still represented by forms such as oo and a.
On the other hand, the native word hi was almost entirely lost in favour of a
new form they – with its inflected forms them and their – which is not native
English at all but taken from the Old Norse speech of the Vikings who settled in
northern England. It is unusual for one language to take a pronoun from
another language, but the Anglo Saxons apparently saw good reason to do
this. Today the ancient native pronoun hi retains only a marginal presence in
English: its former dative form hem still clings to life as the item we spell ’em, as
in Give it to ’em.
Politeness
Most of us, most of the time, are eager to avoid giving offence, and avoiding
offence can require some manipulation of the language. As we saw in the last
chapter, English speakers have been struggling for generations to find delicate
and polite ways of talking about copulation, but no solution seems to remain
wholly delicate for long. The coy six-syllable creation sexual intercourse was
promptly shortened to intercourse, and already this word is beginning to sound
rather blunt and graphic to many ears: perhaps even legal and scientific,
Why are languages always changing?
27
particularly in comparison to other coinages such as making love and sleeping
together, which still draw a hazy veil over just what the participants are up to.
Soon, no doubt, intercourse will come to seem almost as coarse as the terms it
was invented to avoid, and we’ll have to scramble for yet another euphemism.
Sex, excretion and death are the topics that most plainly call for euphemisms
and weasel words, and hence for innovations in the language, but there are many
other areas in which a desire for politeness can bring about changes in the
language. For generations, English obliged women to declare their marital
status publicly on every occasion, with Miss Johnson or Mrs Wilson, while
no such obligation was laid on men. Only in the middle of the twentieth century
did this linguistic discrimination come to be seen as outrageously sexist and
patronising. Having realised this, English now has Ms in the language for any
women who want to use it – and very many of them do.
Somewhat different is the case of country names. As a rule in English, the
name of a country takes the article the only if this word is required for structural
reasons: the United States, the United Kingdom, the Philippines, the
Netherlands. But most country names lack the article: Cuba, Russia, Italy,
Wales, Brazil. However, for various historical reasons, there are a number of
countries whose English names commonly took the article until very recently:
the Sudan, the Lebanon, the Gambia, the Ukraine, and a few others. But the
article has now disappeared from all these names in careful writing, where we
find only Sudan, Lebanon, Gambia and Ukraine.
This is done to avoid giving offence. Citizens of these countries are often
deeply offended when the name of their country gets the article. They point out
indignantly that country names do not normally take the article, and that the
article is usual only in the names of vaguely defined geographical regions, such
as the Kalahari, the Midlands, the Arctic and the Midwest. To a Ukrainian, then,
writing or saying the Ukraine suggests that Ukraine is not a proper country at
all, but something less – perhaps no more than a renegade region of Russia.
Removal of the historical article from these names is therefore necessary to
avoid giving unintended offence.
Misunderstanding
Some changes derive from simple misunderstanding. In the last chapter, we saw
how the expression telling one’s beads, originally ‘counting one’s prayers’, was
reinterpreted as meaning ‘counting the little balls’, with the result that bead
changed its meaning from ‘prayer’ to ‘little ball’. Such misunderstandings are
perhaps more frequent than you might suppose. Consider the be going to
construction.
Normally, I can only say I’m going to bed if I am actually on my way to bed,
or at least on the very point of getting out of my chair and heading for the
28
Why Do Languages Change?
bedroom. It would be seriously abnormal for me to say I’m going to bed when
I have no intention of leaving my chair for another two or three hours.
The same used to be true of sentences like I’m going to visit Mrs Pumphrey.
Until the early nineteenth century, such a thing could only be uttered by someone who was actually on her way to Mrs Pumphrey’s house, or at least on the
very point of setting off. But then something happened. People hearing things
like I’m going to visit Mrs Pumphrey from speakers just getting ready to set
out took the speakers to mean, not ‘I’m on my way’, but rather ‘I intend to visit
Mrs Pumphrey.’ As a result, the once-obligatory sense of immediate movement
was ‘bleached out’ of the construction, which was reanalysed as no more than
an expression of intention at some unspecified future time.
Today we can happily say I’m going to see the new Spielberg film while we
are curled up cosily in our chairs with no intention of moving for hours and
no plans to see the film for days. We can even say things like I’m going to
finish this book tonight, in which no relevant movement is even conceivable.
Other problems with interpretation are also present in all languages, however.
Long ago, English had a word guma, meaning ‘man’. This word formed
part of a compound, brydguma, literally ‘bride-man’, and applied to a man
getting married. But then the independent word guma gradually dropped out
of use and vanished from the language. This loss left the second half of
brydguma isolated and opaque. English speakers hearing bride-goom understood the bride part without difficulties, but the goom was a complete mystery.
Trying to make some sense of it, they altered bridegoom into bridegroom.
Speakers would have been aware that groom was a real English word that they
were familiar with. Of course, it didn’t have much to do with weddings: a
groom is simply somebody who looks after horses. But at least a groom was a
kind of man and so speakers happily altered the mysterious bridegoom into the
slightly more intelligible-looking bridegroom. This kind of rearrangement of
an opaque word is called folk-etymology.
Another example of change through misinterpretation: English has long
had a word to express the sense of ‘lucky’. In Old English, that word was the
native English word silly, but, after this word changed its meaning rather
dramatically, another word, lucky, was adopted, apparently from Dutch or
Low German (the name given to the dialects, more like Dutch than Standard
German, spoken in northern Germany, which were once the lingua franca of
northern Europe) via gamblers’ argot. So, there has always been a way
of expressing this range of senses. Nevertheless, after the Norman Conquest
of England, the word fortunate, with the same meaning, was taken over from
Norman French. For centuries these two words have existed side by side in
English: the plain, workaday lucky and the more formal and elevated fortunate.
Continuing with the sense ‘lucky’: English also has a word fortuitous. This
word, until recently elevated and rather rare, means ‘accidental’, ‘happening by
Why are languages always changing?
29
chance’; it does not mean ‘lucky’, and it is only very distantly related to
fortunate. But, in recent years, some people have stumbled across the unfamiliar
word fortuitous in reading; not being familiar with it, they surmised that it
must be an even fancier word for ‘fortunate’. As a result, more and more
people are now writing and saying fortuitous when they mean to express only
the meaning of ‘lucky’. This formerly uncommon word has become decidedly
frequent, and those who use it almost without exception use it meaning
‘lucky’, and not ‘accidental’. The word fortuitous is now well on its way to a
change of meaning: its traditional sense of ‘accidental’ is disappearing, and
its unexpected new sense of ‘lucky’ is taking over. Within a generation or
two, it is very likely that there will be no speakers left alive still using the
word in its older sense, and the shift of meaning will be complete.
Why has this happened? On the face of it, we are looking at nothing
more than an ignorant blunder. A speaker of pedantic outlook might put it
like this: ‘A few ill-educated oafs stumbled across this word, didn’t know
what it meant, and made a wild wrong guess; now they’re being followed in
this ignorant howler by other ill-educated oafs, and the proper use of the
word is being forgotten.’
This may be true, but there’s another point at issue here. Since English
has always had a plain word to express ‘lucky’ (although different words
at different times), why did our ancestors bother to take over the word
fortunate from French in the first place? After all, it is unlikely that French
pain ‘bread’ or voiture ‘car’ or chemin ‘road’ will be borrowed and used
frequently, so why fortunate? The answer can be summed up in one word:
prestige.
Prestige and pretentiousness
After the conquest of England by the French-speaking Normans, Norman
French enjoyed enormous prestige in England, where it was the language of
the king, the court and the aristocracy, while English remained only the everyday language of ordinary people, with no prestige at all. The native upper
classes, and those who had hopes of joining the upper classes, learned to
speak French. Having learned it, they did not fail to show off their command
of this prestigious language by dropping French words into their English. By
definition, French words were more refined and elevated than our crude and
clumsy English words, and so French words poured into English, in many
cases displacing their native English equivalents. In fact, specialists estimate
that between 60 and 80 per cent of the native English vocabulary disappeared
in the centuries after the Norman Conquest, as we can see in Table 2.
The torrent of Norman words flowing into English eventually dried up, but
French influence on English was far from over. From about the sixteenth
30
Why Do Languages Change?
Table 2.1 Old English words and their modern
equivalents
Native
French
berg
ea
here
andwlita
swamm
wuldor
æwnung
swæsende
gewrit
mountain
river
army
face
mousseron (now mushroom)
glory
marriage
feast (and later also French banquet)
document
century onwards, France was generally perceived as the leading European
nation, and French culture was everywhere regarded as the pinnacle of civilisation. As a result, French words flooded into the other languages of Europe,
and no other language was more receptive than English. Among the hundreds
of new arrivals were armistice, coup de grace, picnic, cigarette, crusade, clique,
champagne, ragout, roulette, courtesan, soirée, crochet, garage, ballet, pastel,
café, demi-monde, tutu, cognac and the more unexpected turtle. Turtles aside,
these few but typical examples demonstrate that French borrowings from
the sixteenth to the early twentieth century were associated with a way of life
that was cosmopolitan, sophisticated, urbane, prosperous and, by strait-laced
standards, a little sinful.
Since at least 1945, the prestige of French has been declining, but its
former cachet has not entirely disappeared. You may know someone who
cannot resist spattering his English speech with Gallicisms like au contraire
and naturellement. When long French-style loaves of crispy bread were
first introduced into British supermarkets a couple of decades ago, they
were called French sticks, but this blunt English label has not survived,
and today nobody in Britain calls them anything but baguettes.
Today, however, the shoe is mostly on the other foot. English is now the
most prestigious language on the planet, and English words are enthusiastically taken into Spanish, German, Japanese, Greek – and French. The French
authorities take great offence over the countless English words streaming into
French, and the French language police work concentrate on inventing
‘genuine’ French equivalents. The august Académie française issues firm
instructions to eschew le weekend in favour of le fin de semaine. It commands
loyal Frenchmen and women to avoid the horrible English word le bulldozer
and to trot out the stoutly French creation le bouledozeur. In practice, however, most French speakers pay little attention to the Academy’s rulings and
Why are languages always changing?
31
say whatever they like – and what they like is often a piece of English. So
fond are today’s French speakers of English that they even invent ‘English’
words and use those in French, like le footing ‘jogging’, le jogging ‘tracksuit’
and le brushing ‘blow-dry’ – not to mention le shampooing ‘shampoo’.
To be fair, the Academy has enjoyed some successes. While just about
everybody else in Europe is happy to buy a computer with software, a French
speaker must buy an ordinateur with logiciels. Originally, the well-known
English computing term to debug was taken bodily into French as the awkward débugger, which is hardly even pronounceable. The authorities
demanded, and got, a rearrangement of this into déboguer, which at least
looks like French. This verb naturally gave rise to a derivative débogage for
‘debugging’, but the ‘language police’ were still not happy. The wonderful
creation déverminage, the word given in the latest French dictionaries, has
become the preferred choice.
It is not easy to decide just when succumbing to prestige lapses into
pretentiousness. But there is no doubt that prestige is an immensely important
force in language change.
Structural reasons
Human speech has to be produced by the human vocal tract, which has a
complicated and irregular shape. The shape of the vocal tract is sometimes a
factor in producing language change, especially changes in pronunciation.
English has a sound unit /k/, which is variously spelled <c>, <k>, <ck>,
<q>, and occasionally in other ways. This sound occurs at the beginning of the
word car, and also at the beginning of the word key. But try pronouncing car
key several times. You will quickly notice that the /k/ in key is pronounced
very differently from the /k/ in car. In particular, the /k/ in key is pronounced
with the tongue much higher and further forward in the mouth. In our
technical terminology, we say that the /k/ in key is palatalised, and we can
represent this palatalised /k/ by the phonetic symbol [kj].
In terms of its tongue position, however, this [kj] is really not very close to the
‘plain’ /k/ in car, and it is in fact much closer to the consonant /t∫/ which occurs
at the beginning of the word cheese. Try saying car – key – cheese in sequence,
and you will notice that the tongue positions are quite far apart for the /k/ in car
and the /k/ in key, but rather close together for the /k/ of key and the /t∫/ of cheese.
Why does this happen? It results from the effect of the following vowel.
In car, the vowel is /a/ or /ɑ/, which is pronounced with the tongue held
low in the mouth and, for most speakers, in the middle or towards the back of
the mouth. In key, however, the following vowel is /i/, which is pronounced
with the tongue held high in the mouth and pushed forward about as far as
it will go. English speakers, like speakers of all languages, find it unnatural
32
Why Do Languages Change?
and difficult to make the /k/ sound with the tongue pulled back and down,
and then to hurl the tongue dramatically forward and up to make the vowel /i/.
Try it: you will find it difficult, and, if you manage it, you will produce
something that doesn’t sound like English. In practice, it is easier to push our
tongues forward and up while we are still pronouncing the /k/ sound, so that
we have our tongues in perfect position to do the vowel when we get to it.
It is this raising and fronting of the tongue that constitutes palatalisation.
The consonants /k/ (as in car and key) and /g/ (as in go and give) are
technically known as velar consonants, because they are pronounced with
the back of the tongue against the velum, or soft palate, towards the back of
the top of the mouth. Vowels pronounced with the tongue pushed to the
top and the front of the mouth, like /i/ in key, are called high front vowels.
When a velar consonant is immediately followed by a high front vowel, as it is
in key, humans find it almost impossible to avoid palatalising the consonant:
we just naturally push the consonant forward in our mouths onto the (hard)
palate to get ready for that vowel.
But, once we start doing this, it is very easy to exaggerate the palatalisation
ever so slightly. If this happens, our palatalised [kj] sound quickly slips
into the sound [t∫] or something similar. Exactly this happened some centuries
ago in English. All the words chin, cheese, child, chaff, chicken and chalk,
among many others, used to start with the consonant /k/ followed by a front
vowel. But early English speakers slightly ‘overdid’ the palatalisation, and so
the original /k/ (phonetic [kj]) turned into /t∫/, the sound we usually spell <ch>
in Modern English. German is a language that shares a common origin with
English, as we will see later in the book; compare German Kinn ‘chin’, Käse
‘cheese’, Kind ‘child’, and so on. The German /k/ in these words is still the
palatalised [kj], but German speakers have so far managed to resist the
temptation to push the palatalisation just a bit further.
Structural factors are not important only in pronunciation. Grammatical
structures and semantic structures (meaning structures) can also play a part
in language change. Consider an example from Basque, a language spoken at
the western end of the Pyrenees. Among the several Basque colour terms is
urdin, which means ‘blue’ and nothing else. However, there is a kind of
mushroom which has a striking bright-green cap, and this mushroom is called
in Basque a gibel-urdin – literally, it would seem, a ‘blue-back’ (gibel means
‘back’). Why isn’t it called something more sensible, like perhaps gibel-berde
‘green-back’?
The answer can be found in the ways that the Basque language has changed.
Some centuries ago, Basque had fewer colour terms than it has today, and urdin
was the Basque label covering all of green and blue, as well as the lighter
shades of grey. The mushroom was therefore named gibel-urdin, because urdin
was the ordinary Basque name for its colour.
Why are languages always changing?
33
But Basque speakers eventually noticed that their Spanish-speaking neighbours had two different words for ‘green’ and ‘blue’, as well as a third word
for ‘grey’. They then took over Spanish verde ‘green’ as berde, which became
their new word for ‘green’, and they also took over Spanish gris ‘grey’ as gris
‘grey’. And what happened to urdin? It remained in the language, of course,
but its range of application shrank. Berde took over the job of labelling
the green part of urdin, while the other new word gris took over the grey
part of urdin. Consequently, the native word was left with only the blue part
of its former meaning. Today, therefore, urdin just means ‘blue’, and the
once-sensible name of the mushroom has become puzzling.
This kind of change results from structural factors: the colour term urdin
was part of an integrated system of colour terms, and, when the new colour
terms berde and gris were introduced into the system, the value of urdin was
forced to change in order to accommodate the new words.
Exactly the same thing has happened in English, several times, as our system
of colour terms has been expanded. Consider the word orange.
The fruit we call the orange is native to Asia, and until rather recently it
remained an exotic rarity in Europe. But knowledge of the fruit slowly spread,
and its name, taken from Sanskrit, an ancient language of India, passed
through Persian, Arabic and French before finally reaching English. The
first mention of the fruit in English is recorded in 1387, but only the richest
people would have seen oranges in medieval England. Yet the brilliant
and distinctive colour of the fruit attracted attention, and after a while
English speakers began using the expression orange-colour to label this sort
of colour on the few occasions when they needed such a label. Only in 1600
do we find unmodified orange recorded as the name of the colour, but this
use remained rare, and it only started to become common in the 1780s.
Today, of course, it is perfectly clear to English speakers that orange is
just as basic a colour term as red, yellow or green. While crimson and scarlet,
for example, are clearly only varieties of red, orange is not a variety of red,
nor a variety of anything else. So, thanks to the introduction of this vividly
coloured Asian fruit, English now has a basic colour term which it formerly
lacked, and this term can be applied to anything of a suitable colour.
Before they became acquainted with the fruit, no one had any reason to worry
about what colour it was. But people must occasionally have bumped into
things that we would unhesitatingly describe as ‘orange’, so what colour term
did they apply – say, to one of the newfangled orange carrots which were
beginning to displace the traditional white ones? Well, they could not say
‘orange’, because no such term existed, and there was no equivalent word.
So, anything which lay somewhere between bright red and bright yellow in
colour had to be either ‘red’ or ‘yellow’. Or it might be ‘yellow-red’, a word
recorded from before the Norman Conquest. Or the speaker might exhibit a
34
Why Do Languages Change?
little imagination, and call the object ‘apple-yellow’ – also recorded before the
Conquest – or words to that effect.
Another recent addition to the English set of colour terms is pink. Since
the 1570s, pink has been the name of a garden flower whose petals have
distinctive zigzag edges. These flowers are found in several colours, but
their most frequent colour is pale red. Around 1720 the name of the flower
began to be used as a descriptive label for anything having a pale red colour,
much as we might describe something today as ‘primrose’ or ‘magnolia’
because of its colour. Oddly, however, the word pink was nowhere recorded
independently as the name of a colour until it appeared in Noah Webster’s
famous American dictionary of 1828 – and even there it was given only as
an artists’ colour.
So, pink is a very recent addition to the English colour-term system, but this
term too is now regarded as basic, and most English speakers do not think of
pink as a kind of red. In a manner that seems almost haphazard, the way English
lays out colour boundaries has once again changed, and all because of the
former popularity of a garden flower whose existence most of us are hardly
aware of.
Structural factors can lead to changes in a language, and changes in a
language can have consequences for its structure.
Analogy
There is one kind of structural reason for change that is so important it
deserves its own section here. This is the phenomenon linguists call analogy.
Suppose I tell you (truthfully) that each of the obscure English words ziff,
zo and zax is the name of something that can be counted. What do you
suppose their plural forms are? Ziffs, zos and zaxes, of course. You managed
to create these plural forms instantly, and you can even pronounce them
without difficulty, even though – if you listen carefully – the plural ending is
pronounced somewhat differently in each of the three words according to a
consistent rule.
How can you do this? How can you instantly create the correct plural form of
a word you’ve never seen before? Well, you do it by analogy. You have learned
that there is a regular pattern for constructing English plurals, as in cats, dogs
and foxes, and you can readily extend that pattern to any new words you come
across. Generally this works well.
Of course, not always. Standard English does not permit the plural forms
foots, childs, sheeps, mouses or radiuses, and we all have to memorise the
unpredictable plurals feet, children, sheep, mice and radii. But there aren’t
that many of these, and creating plural forms by analogy works very well
most of the time.
Why are languages always changing?
35
Table 2.2 Old English plurals
Singular
Plural
Gloss
sunu
nama
cild
cyning
stede
scip
spere
glof
cwen
heorte
ende
here
wealh
fot
dæg
suna
naman
cildru
cyningas
stede
scipu
speru
glofa
cwene
heortan
endas
herias
wealas
fet
dagas
‘son’
‘name’
‘child’
‘king’
‘place’
‘ship’
‘spear’
‘glove’
‘woman’
‘heart’
‘end’
‘army’
‘foreigner’
‘foot’
‘day’
In fact, we human beings adore analogy. Every one of us is eager to see
patterns in the world, and language is no exception. And this desire to find
patterns can lead us innocently into changing our language.
The past tense and the participle of the verb work used to be wrought,
but this verb has been attracted by analogy to the common pattern illustrated
by love, loved. Now the verb goes work, worked, by analogy, and the old
form wrought is confined, except in traditional Scottish dialects, to a few
fossilised expressions like wrought iron, no longer even associated with
work. In fact, very many formerly irregular English verbs have been made
regular by just this kind of analogy. But analogy can also work in the other
direction. The past tense of catch was formerly the regular catched, as in
I catched a cold. But this verb was re-formed by analogy with teach, taught,
and today, if we want to sound educated, we must say I caught a cold – a
form that would have sounded ridiculously ignorant 500 years ago. And,
in much of the northeastern United States, the verb dive has likewise been
re-formed by analogy with the several verbs like drive, drove, and Americans
from this area now say I dove into the water. Analogy does not always bring
about regularity and simplicity.
Given enough time, analogy can transform the shape of a language. Let’s
return to English plurals. The English spoken before around 1150 – Old
English – was, like Modern German, a language with a large number of ways
of constructing plurals. Table 2.1 shows a sample of some Old English plural
forms.
36
Why Do Languages Change?
This table by no means exhausts all the complications encountered in forming plurals in Old English, but it gives you an idea of the amount of work
involved (for Modern English speakers, naturally: it was second nature to the
Anglo-Saxons) in learning to pluralise nouns in that language.
English retains only a little of this former complexity. But again this simplification results from analogy. Early English speakers seemingly no longer
kept track of so many different plural forms, and they began to extend some of
the plural forms analogically to words which had previously not taken these
plural forms.
The pattern which has finally won out is the one represented in Old
English by cyning, cyningas ‘king’ in the table. But this <-s> plural did not
take over the language in one go. The extension of plural <-s> to nouns which
had not formerly had it began in the Old English period. During the Middle
English period (from around 1100 to 1500), the <-s> plural slowly but
steadily attracted ever more nouns to itself. Even so, Middle English texts
reveal quite a few nouns with other plurals, most conspicuously the <-n>
found with Middle English name, namen ‘name’: shoon ‘shoes’, eyen ‘eyes’,
eyren ‘eggs’, kine ‘cows’, and lots of others. Today, however, the <-n> plural
has been analogised completely out of the language, except in the uncommon
oxen and the strangely formed children. This last word is really a double
plural: the Old English plural cildru became Middle English childer, but
this form appears to have been perceived as insufficiently clearly marked
as a plural, and so the formerly prominent <-n> was tacked onto it to
produce the modern form. Some Modern English speakers from the north
of England still use childer, however, while many English Catholics call the
Feast of the Holy Innocents in January Childermass.
Today this particular struggle is largely over. When the Italian word pizza
came into English, there was no agonising over whether its plural should be
pizze or pizzen or pizzaru. The plural was instantly pizzas, and there was no
discussion. It might have been different if pizza were a learned Greek or
Hebrew term. Even here distinctions can be made, however. The plural of
cherub, the Hebrew word for the angels of fire who surround the presence
of God, is cherubim, with an authentic Hebrew plural. When cherub is used
to describe the chubby infant angels shown on Christmas cards, however, the
plural form is the native cherubs.
Group identity
Politeness, prestige, misunderstanding, analogy – all these things and others
play a part in language change. But there is one more factor which, we
linguists have finally realised, is of immense importance. That factor is
group identity.
Why are languages always changing?
37
Every one of us wants to belong to a group of people, to be accepted by
the other members of that group as one of them, to be recognised by outsiders
as a member of that group. And we linguists have gradually realised, although
only really since the 1960s, that one of the most powerful ways of maintaining
and displaying membership in a group is language.
A group may perhaps be identified by its members’ clothes, or hairstyles,
or accessories, or favourite hangouts. But just about every group can be
readily identified by the speech of its members.
Consider a motor mechanic in London. He speaks the kind of English
which is usual among working-class people in that city, the kind commonly
known as ‘Cockney’. If you ask him what he thinks about his English, he
will very likely describe it as ‘not very good’. This response is typical of
working-class speakers in London and elsewhere.
From an objective point of view, it is perfectly clear that Cockney speech
is not the sort of English which is generally regarded as prestigious in
London. Instead, prestige attaches itself to the educated English spoken by
television newsreaders, stockbrokers, barristers, university professors, and
other members of the middle and upper classes. That being so, why doesn’t
our motor mechanic adjust his speech towards the English used by those
television newsreaders and by his more prosperous customers? After all, he
hears this kind of English often enough, so why doesn’t he try to adopt it
himself?
Just imagine for a moment that he tried to do this. Suppose he tried hard
to abandon his Cockney speech and to speak instead with the best approximation to middle-class English that he could muster. What would happen?
For a few seconds, his family and his friends would assume he was making
some kind of joke, and they would laugh. But only for a few seconds. Before
long, they would become distant, annoyed and perhaps even hostile. He would
no longer be welcome in the circles in which he was formerly a valued
member.
Why is this? Prestige is not a simple notion. The mechanic belongs to a
group of people with whom he shares background, circumstances, tastes and
values. And it is the members of this group upon whom he relies for his social
life, for support in times of difficulty, and in general for his sense of selfrespect, for his sense that he has a place in society, for his sense that he is a
valued person.
But how does he maintain his all-important place in this social group?
One of the most powerful ways of maintaining and exhibiting membership
in a social group is language. Every social group has its own way of
speaking, a style of speech which serves as a badge of membership in that
group. So, if our motor mechanic wants to retain his place in the group, then
the one thing he must do above all else is to speak the way the others speak.
38
Why Do Languages Change?
Doing so carries a clear message: ‘I regard myself as a member of your
group.’ But, as soon as our mechanic begins to speak in some other way,
then he is announcing in the clearest way possible ‘I no longer regard myself
a member of your group.’ If he persists, the others will quickly get the
message, and he will indeed find himself excluded from the group.
This is true of every social group. For purposes of group membership, it
makes no difference at all whether the group’s speech is regarded, by the
members of the group or by outsiders, as good or bad, as prestigious or as
vulgar. All that matters is to speak the way the others speak, because only by
doing this can anybody maintain a place in the group.
And that means accepting whatever changes become current in the chosen
speech variety. The vernacular speech of London has undergone a number of
rather distinctive changes in pronunciation. For example, a Londoner’s pronunciation of time sounds like tsoim; a Londoner’s paint sounds like pint,
while a Londoner’s pint sounds like point; and a Londoner’s water famously
sounds like woh’ah, with a glottal stop in the middle. There are distinctive
London words, like loaf for ‘head’, and distinctive London locutions like
blimey for surprise and dun I for reinforcement, as in I drives a van, dun I?.
Any working-class Londoner who wants to fit in must accept and use these
forms, because these are the forms which express membership in the group.
The use of these forms represents what linguists call covert prestige, in
contrast to the overt prestige associated with educated middle-class norms.
So the maintenance and expression of group identity is an important force
in language change. In Chapter 8 we will see some further striking cases
of deliberate language change in pursuit of a distinct identity, including the
most spectacular example so far uncovered.
A final thought
In this chapter we have considered some of the central mechanisms of
language change: prestige, analogy, cultural change and ‘ease’. These forces
are so powerful that they are at work constantly on every living language.
Normally in subtle ways, occasionally in very striking ways, the language we
hear (and to an extent use) in old age is different from what we heard and spoke
as a teenager.
In the rest of this book, we will consider these forces in relation to separate
features of language change, each of which will be approached as a series of
questions. In the next chapter, we will investigate the vexed question of
word origin.
3
Where do words come from?
The romance of word origins
Every language has thousands of words, and every one of those words must
have an origin of some kind – that is, it must have come from somewhere.
Words can have all kinds of origins, but mostly they come from other words, in
the same language or in other languages. The study of word origins is called
etymology, a laborious and exacting business requiring considerable erudition.
You have practically no chance of uncovering the origin of any word unless you
have an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the history of every language (and
its speakers) that might possibly be relevant to your task – and even then you
won’t get far unless you know how and where to locate dusty and forgotten
documents buried in out-of-the-way archives, and how to use those documents.
This is not obvious when you consult a reference book giving word origins.
There are several large scholarly etymological dictionaries of English, each of
them soberly reporting everything that has so far been uncovered about the
origins of thousands of English words, and there are many more popular books
on word origins which typically present some of the more engaging word
origins. And word origins can certainly be engaging. Who is not delighted to
learn that bikini takes its name from that of a Pacific atoll where some early
atomic bombs were tested, on the ground that the effect of the new costume was
comparably ‘explosive’? Or that the drug heroin gets its name from the superhuman delusions it induces in its user? Or that ramble originally meant ‘wander
about like a randy ram looking for ewes to copulate with’? Or that work and
orgy are historically the same word? And only the most inflexible teetotaller can
fail to be impressed by learning that whisky derives from Gaelic uisge beatha
‘water of life’.
Generations of etymologists have worked their way slowly and painfully
through the vocabularies of English and other languages, establishing for
example that garlic descends from Old English gar-leac ‘spear-leek’ (because
of its pointy cloves), that shampoo derives from the Hindi order cāmpo! ‘press
it!’ (used as an instruction to massage a patron in a Turkish bath), and that
nightmare has nothing to do with horses but contains the obsolete English word
mære, a kind of evil spirit or goblin which was thought to sit on sleepers’ chests
and give them bad dreams. Very few of these conclusions are obvious, and
39
40
Why Do Languages Change?
almost every one of them required dozens or hundreds of hours of painstaking
investigation to establish the facts.
Non-specialists do not always realise this, often assuming that finding the
origin of a word consists of nothing more than finding another word somewhere
which resembles it, more or less. But, as always in linguistic work, resemblances are almost always worthless, and etymologists must work with more reliable
procedures to establish correspondences. It is far from obvious, for example,
that English head and French chef are historically the same word, but that both
languages have changed the pronunciation greatly (the original was roughly
*kaput), while French has also changed the meaning. This sort of conclusion –
and this one is established beyond dispute – cannot be obtained from a mindless
search for lookalikes.
Are English ear (of corn) and ear (on the head) historically the same word or
not? No; they are not related at all, although it is only painstaking scholarly
work which has established this (and it has to be recognised that the similarity in
appearance had led speakers to assume a connection between the two for
centuries). Is English bimbo ‘sexy but dim-witted young woman’ related somehow to Italian bimbo ‘child’? Yes, it is, but the connection is far from simple: the
Italian word was first taken into English as an informal word for ‘fellow’,
‘chap’, and the shift in sex is still not entirely understood. Languages do strange
and unexpected things. Is there any connection between flower (a rose or a
buttercup) and flour (for making bread)? Yes; they are actually historically the
same word. This conclusion could hardly be less obvious. Few people would
have guessed it in advance, but once again scholarly work has established this as
a fact beyond dispute. Is spring ‘the season after winter’ the same word as
spring ‘a place where water rises out of the ground’? Yes; the first is a
metaphorical use of the second. Is blackmail related to mail ‘post’ or to mail
‘armour’? No; it is related to neither. It contains the otherwise obsolete English
word mail ‘tribute, rent’, derived from mál ‘speech, agreement’ in Old Norse,
the language of the Vikings who once settled parts of Britain. In the sixteenth
century, unscrupulous Scottish chieftains ran what we would now call a protection racket, and the money they extorted from their victims in return for not
killing them or beggaring them came to be called blackmail.
Word origins can be decidedly peculiar. Where do you suppose the word
gorilla might come from? Names of non-European animals are often taken from
the local languages spoken where the animals are found, as has happened with
skunk, raccoon, okapi, yak, kangaroo, wombat and kiwi. So, we might suppose
that gorilla is simply the name of the animal in a local African language. But the
truth is very different.
In the fifth century BC, the Carthaginian explorer Hanno reported that he had
encountered, somewhere in West Africa, a tribe of wild hairy people, whose
females, according to an interpreter, were called gorillas. And that is where the
Where do words come from?
41
word stayed for about twenty-four centuries, until European scientists first
became aware of the huge African apes. In 1847, the American scientist
Thomas Savage, who apparently had a sense of humour, applied Hanno’s
ancient word to these creatures, and within a few years gorillas had become
their accepted name.
After generations of scholarly toil, we now know the origins of most English
words – but not of all of them. Among the English words whose origins are still
wholly unknown today, in spite of immense efforts, are these: yo-yo, zebra
(English took this from Spanish, Portuguese or Italian, but nobody knows where
these other languages got it from), sleazy, gourmand, ricochet, bauble (these
last three are taken from French, of course, but the origins of the French words
are mysterious), slender, baste (‘moisten roasting meat with fat’; the origin of
baste ‘sew loosely’ is well understood), rickrack (the zigzag decoration on
clothing), bridge (the card game) and the British word loo ‘toilet’. There is still a
lot of work to be done, although the origins of some of these words are probably
beyond recovery, for lack of evidence. Remarkably, yo-yo is not recorded before
about 1915, and loo not before the 1920s, yet even so scholars have not been
able to find any clear evidence of their origins: both words just seem to have
dropped out of the sky. (Some dictionaries will tell you that yo-yo originated as a
trade name, but in fact the trade name Yo-Yo was filed only in 1932, seventeen
years after the name of the toy was recorded; the explanation that loo is derived
from pronunciations of French l’eau ‘the water’ in Renaissance Edinburgh is
problematical because the word was first recorded in the twentieth century.)
Such cases are not rare at any period. At the beginning of the thirteenth
century, the word brim seemingly dropped out of the sky into English, originally
in the sense of ‘edge’. There is no whisper of the word in the written English of
the several centuries preceding its appearance, even though the word looks for
all the world like a native English word, and even though obviously related
words for ‘edge’ are found in other Germanic languages. So what happened?
Nobody supposes that there was a vast conspiracy among English writers to
avoid putting the word down on paper for several centuries. Many of the more
vulgar English four-letter words appear in writing only very late precisely
because nobody wanted to write them down, but it hardly seems possible that
the inoffensive brim could be a candidate for such treatment.
But we can’t be sure. Consider occupy. This was taken into English in the
fourteenth century, either from Latin occupare or from that word’s Old French
descendant occuper. For a couple of centuries it remained an ordinary and
unremarkable English word. Then, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,
the word almost disappeared from written English, because it had become a
common slang term for ‘have sex with’ (‘as King Edwin occupied Alfgifa his
concubine’, recorded in 1546), and, as always in such cases, writers were
reluctant to use the word in its harmless sense for fear of inducing vulgar
42
Why Do Languages Change?
laughter. Shakespeare puts this protest into the mouth of Doll Tearsheet in
King Henry IV, Part II: ‘A captain! God’s light, these villains will make the
word ‘captain’ as odious as the word “occupy”, which was an excellent good
word before it was ill sorted.’ Eventually, however, the sexual sense of the word
dropped out of use, and occupy was restored to good standing in our lexicon.
A famous mystery word is penguin. A favourite story sees the source as Welsh
pen gwyn, which means ‘white head’. Pen gwyn is indeed perfect Welsh, and it’s a
perfect source for the English word as far as the pronunciation is concerned. But
penguins don’t have white heads: they have black ones. This looks a fatal shortcoming, but things, as usual, are more complicated. Originally, the word penguin
was not applied to the Antarctic bird at all, but to a quite different bird, the nowextinct great auk of the North Atlantic. Only later was the name transferred to the
vaguely similar-looking southern bird. But the great auk didn’t have a white head
either. It is hard to imagine English ships loaded down with Welsh sailors
boisterously shouting Whitehead! in Welsh every time they saw a big bird with
a black head. It seems, therefore, that we are stuck.
There is a school of thought which holds that any story is better than none at
all, but most etymologists are reluctant to embrace this view, and they prefer to
have no explanation rather than one that looks deeply dubious.
The origin of the word butterfly demonstrates that we must strip away the
connotations the being or thing has – in this case, that it is beautiful – to find
the often pedestrian origins of a word. In English and in other languages, the
butterfly is a byword for inconstancy, and European names for the insect are
likewise unstable. Names come and names go at a brisk pace. Among the recent
names are Albanian flutur, Bulgarian peperuda, Czech motel, Danish sommerfugl and skurvefugl, Dutch vlinder, Estonian liblikas, Finnish perhonen, French
papillon, Scottish Gaelic dear badan-de and seillan de, German Schmetterling,
Greek petalóvda, Hungarian pillango, Icelandic fithrildi, Irish feileacan, Italian
farfalla, Latvian tauriuö, Lithuanian peteliöke, Norwegian sommerfugl, Polish
motyl, Portuguese borboleta, Romanian fluturi, Russian babochka, Serbian and
Croatian leptir, Slovenian metulj, Spanish mariposa, Swedish fjäril, Turkish
kelebek, and Welsh pili-pala and half-a-dozen other words. Basque, spoken
only in a circumscribed area, has more than twenty-five names for the creature,
including tximeleta, inguma, pinpirina and jainko-oilo.
Against this background, English butterfly is a rock of stability. This word has
been used as long as English has existed as a distinct language: it occurs in Old
English in the form butorfleoge. The same word is recorded in some of the
continental Germanic languages: we have a Dutch word botervlieg (from earlier
botervlieghe) and a regional German name Butterfliege. But why ‘butter-fly’?
What has the insect to do with butter?
Of course, there are speculations. One idea is that the bright yellow butterflies
now called ‘sulphurs’ are commonplace in Europe, and that these butter-coloured
Where do words come from?
43
varieties were taken as the stereotypical butterflies. Another proposal is that there
was once an old wives’ tale that butterflies stole butter from kitchens. Maybe, but
there is no trace of such a story. A third possibility is a little less romantic.
Butterfly excrement is oily and yellowish, and so perhaps the insects take their
name from the appearance of their droppings. This time we have a small bit of
supporting evidence, since we have a record of another Dutch name for the
creature, boterschijte, which means what it looks like.
Another puzzling word is nipple. Nobody is sure about the origin of this one,
but many people point to the Scottish and northern English word neb, which
means ‘anything which projects’ and is applied to a bird’s beak, a nose or a
snout. These people suggest that nipple originated as a diminutive of this word,
and hence as ‘little thing that sticks out’. This is not a bad guess, but it’s a guess:
there is no hard evidence to support it, and a diminutive of neb wouldn’t
normally have the form nipple; instead, it would be nebble.
However, perhaps the greatest outstanding etymological puzzles in English
are the origins of two humdrum but common little words: boy and girl.
The one thing that is certain about boy is that it cannot be a native English word.
No native English word ever contains the sound /ɔi/ (except in words like find or
tie, if the speaker is Cockney, Australian or from New Zealand, or from some of
the island communities in the Chesapeake Bay in the United States), and any
English word containing it has been taken from another language. This is a tiny
example of the kind of knowledge which professional etymologists must have at
their fingertips. Most of our words containing <oi>, like oil, coin, boil, noise, coy
and destroy, have been taken from Norman French, in which the sound was
common, but sadly Norman French has no such word as boy. So where can the
word come from?
Scholarly ingenuity has not been lacking. Some scholars have proposed that
the English word derives from a word boi, meaning ‘young gentleman’, in
Frisian. (Frisian is a Germanic language spoken in the north of the Netherlands
and in some islands off the northwest coast of Germany.) This idea looks
superficially good, but it is practically unknown for a Frisian word to be taken
into English. And there’s another problem.
English boy is recorded from 1225, but its original sense was ‘servant’. Only
later did it shift its meaning to the modern one. This is bad news for the Frisian
conjecture. So, other scholars have turned back to Norman French, and they
have found the Norman French verb embuier ‘put (someone) into fetters’. They
therefore surmise that this verb gave rise to an unrecorded participle *embuié
‘fettered’, and that this word came to be applied to a servant boy in English,
followed by irregular reduction to the attested form boy ‘servant’.
Neither the Frisian conjecture nor the French conjecture is supported by anything much in the way of evidence, and neither looks obviously satisfying. Most
specialists, therefore, continue to record English boy as being ‘of unknown origin’.
44
Why Do Languages Change?
Girl is even less well served. This word is also first recorded in the thirteenth
century, but curiously it originally meant ‘child’ (of either sex), and it retained
this meaning for centuries. In the middle of the fifteenth century, we find
examples like knave-gerlys ‘boy children’ (English knave originally meant
‘boy’, but it has gone down in the world). Eventually girl came to be specialised
to meaning ‘female child’, but that is no help in finding its origin. The closest
possible relatives that anyone has ever managed to find are Low German gör(e)
‘(naughty) child’ and a dialectal Norwegian word gurre ‘lamb’. This gives you
an idea of how desperate the specialists are with this word. There is no evidence,
and we are stuck.
A mostly successful case
More often than not, however, the efforts of the etymologists have been
crowned with success. In this section, I’ll present the story of a family of
words practically all of which derive from the same ancient source. This is
mostly a success story, although a few of the details still remain obscure.
Latin had a verb battuere, meaning ‘beat, hit, strike’. This does not appear to
be a native Latin word. Nobody really knows where it came from, though
several scholars have suggested that it was taken from Gaulish, the very
sparsely recorded Celtic language of what is now France. The sole evidence
for this conjecture, and very scanty it is, is the observation that Gaulish is known
to have had a word andabata for a certain kind of gladiator.
However, the Latin verb certainly existed, and it survived into Old French in
the form battre or batre. After the Norman Conquest, this verb was taken into
English as batter, meaning ‘hit heavily and repeatedly’. And this, of course, is
the source of the first part of battering ram, the name of an instrument for
knocking down doors. From its verb, Old French derived a noun bateure,
meaning ‘a beating’, and this word was curiously taken into English as batter
and applied to the semi-liquid stuff used to make pancakes or to coat food to be
fried. So, kitchen batter is so called because it is beaten (beat, by the way,
although similar in shape and meaning to batter, is not related to it).
The same Old French verb formed a participle batant ‘beating’, and this word
then came to be used as a noun meaning ‘something which is pounded’. In the
form batten, this noun passed into the English nautical vocabulary, where it
designated a wooden cover used to hold something in place. This noun then
came to be used as a verb meaning ‘cover with a batten’, and the result is known
to every landlubber in the expression batten down the hatches.
From their verb the French derived yet another noun, baterie, which also
meant ‘a beating or pounding’. This was also dutifully taken into English, in the
form battery. The original sense of ‘beating’ survives only in the legal phrase
assault and battery. In other senses, however, the word battery has flourished.
Where do words come from?
45
Quite early, battery was applied to a set of metal articles that had been
fashioned by hammering, a sense which is now obsolete. Then the word was
applied to a set of heavy guns firing together in combat, although there is some
disagreement among the specialists as to how this shift of meaning occurred.
Some etymologists believe that battery was shifted directly from ‘set of metal
objects’ to ‘set of guns’. But others think that battery was applied first to the
pounding effect which the guns produced on their targets, and was then transferred to the instruments of this pounding, the guns. At present, the evidence
appears too scanty to allow us a confident conclusion on this detail.
Now we come to electricity. The first practical device for storing electricity
was the Leyden jar, and physicists discovered early that a set of Leyden jars
could be connected in sequence to produce a satisfyingly large discharge of
electricity. This arrangement was quickly dubbed a battery by English-speaking
scientists, but again there is a difference of opinion among etymologists as to
why. One view holds that, since battery already meant ‘group’, the application
of the word to a group of electrical cells was straightforward. The other view,
however, observes that the function of the early batteries was to provide a
discharge of electricity, and therefore holds that this use of battery resides in a
shift from ‘discharge of guns’ to ‘discharge of electricity’. Whatever the truth,
English has extended the use of battery from a collection of cells to a single cell,
and these days we buy a battery (a single cell) for a camera or a calculator.
The word battery has gone on to be applied to all sorts of things. Most often, it
has the ‘group’ sense, as in expressions like a battery of tests and in the chiefly
British term battery hens, meaning hens raised in large numbers in small, confined cages. In baseball, however, the battery is the pitcher and the catcher taken
together. The baseball lexicographer Paul Dickson concludes that this use is a
military metaphor, since these two players, the counterparts of the bowler and the
wicketkeeper in cricket, were perceived in the early days of the game as the team’s
principal strike force in the task of mowing down the opposing batters.
Back now to Latin. From their verb battuere ‘beat’, the Romans coined a noun
battualia ‘military or gladiatorial exercises’. In popular speech, this was altered to
the unrecorded *battalia, and its meaning was strengthened to the sense of real
fighting. In Old French, the word developed into bataille, and this of course was
taken into English as battle. The Italian form of the same word was battaglia, and
from this the Italians coined a derivative battaglione, meaning ‘a fighting unit’;
this formation passed into French and from there into English as battalion.
Moving on: I’ve already mentioned baseball and cricket once: does the bat
used in these sports go back to the same source? Did the Normans have yet
another derivative of the form batte, meaning ‘club’?
Yes: the Normans did have a word batte, and it did mean ‘cudgel’, and it was
derived from their verb batre. It looks as if we have an obvious source for
English bat, but there’s a problem. The English word batt ‘club, cudgel’ is
46
Why Do Languages Change?
recorded in the late Old English period, before the Normans reached England.
Apparently this word has a somewhat more complicated origin after all. Some
specialists suggest that the English word may be of Celtic origin. (I’m afraid
some etymologists have a bad habit of saying ‘possibly of Celtic origin’
whenever they run into a difficult word: the ancient Celtic languages are almost
wholly unrecorded, and so they might have been a source for almost anything.)
Nevertheless, it seems likely that Old French batte at least played a part in
establishing the form and meaning of English bat, but it can’t be the whole story,
however. It might be worth noting that a very small number of Norman French
words – most notably pride – actually entered English before the Conquest,
however.
A less successful case
There is probably no American contribution to world civilisation which is more
important than jazz. While the origins of jazz music are obscure, it seems certain
that this music developed out of the earlier ragtime music sometime around
1900, and virtually certain that it developed in the American south. But the
origin of the word jazz is almost entirely unknown: we simply do not know
where the word originally came from. It is first recorded in writing in 1909 (as
the name of a dance) and in 1916 (in its modern sense). But it was very likely
used in speech for at least a few years before then, and perhaps a bit further back.
It is impossible to say.
Naturally, such a prominent word has attracted a great deal of attention. Here
are just a few of the proposals which have been put forward.
The word derives from Arabic jazib ‘one who allures’.
The word derives from jaiza, a term meaning ‘distant drums’ in some
unidentified African language.
The word derives from Hindi jasba ‘ardent desire’.
Unfortunately these proposals are practically worthless, since they are nothing more than miscellaneous lookalikes in arbitrary languages, and, if you have
learned anything from reading this book, you have learned that miscellaneous
lookalikes are worthless.
In fact, it is not even certain that these suggested source words exist at all. Take
jaiza. There are perhaps 2,000 distinct languages spoken in Africa, and attributing
a word to an unidentified African language is as useful as assigning it to an
unidentified Martian language. Moreover, why on earth would the name of a kind
of music that developed in the south of the United States around 1900 be taken
from such a faraway and implausible language as Arabic or Hindi? How many
people in the American south in those days knew a single word of these
languages? And why would speakers of English choose a word from such a
remote and improbable language to label something which they liked quite a lot?
Where do words come from?
47
Other proposals include:
The word is taken from the name of a dancing slave called Jasper, who
performed in New Orleans in the 1820s.
The word is an alteration of the name of a Mr Razz, who was a bandleader in
New Orleans around 1904.
The word is an alteration of the name of a popular Mississippi drummer of the
1890s named Charles Washington but commonly called Chaz.
The word derives from the name of a Chicago musician called Jasbo Brown.
The word is an alteration of the name of Charles Alexander, the bandleader
who made Alexander’s Ragtime Band famous. His name was always written
on programmes as Chas., and so people called him Chazz, and they shouted
Come on, Chazz! when the music got exciting.
Are these any better than the first set?
Well, at least they are set in the United States, at something like the right
period (except for the first one), and at least they involve people in the music
business. To that small extent, they are better than the first lot.
However, they are really nothing more than wild guesses, backed up by no
evidence at all. It has not even been demonstrated that all of these fascinating
people actually existed, let alone that any one of them had anything at all to do
with the creation of jazz. (It is also not demonstrated that these people were
black, an observation whose importance will become obvious below.)
Moreover, trying to derive the word jazz from something like Chas., or even
razz, has an air of desperation about it. I’m afraid these proposals too are likely
to be worthless.
In order to make any progress in identifying the source of the word jazz, we
first need to find out as much as we can about the origins of jazz music. These
origins too are somewhat cloudy, but there is one thing that is utterly clear and
beyond dispute: jazz was created by African Americans.
Since this much is not in doubt, we should obviously be directing our
investigations towards the speech of black Americans around 1900. Frustratingly,
this is not a topic on which we have much information. The African Americans
of the day practically never bothered to write down their everyday speech, and
the people who were writing things down were usually paying no attention to
black speech. As always in historical linguistics, the absence of records that
could easily have been kept, if only someone had been interested, is an
infuriating obstacle to our investigations. Furthermore, it is now too late to
find anyone who was alive at the time and who could tell us interesting things
about the black southern speech of the day. If only a linguist had been interested
enough around 1930 to ask a few black people about the origins of the word
jazz, we would probably now have the full story.
However, the usual painstaking investigation by linguists in our own day has
turned up one fact which is clearly of central importance. In black American
48
Why Do Languages Change?
speech, the word jazz has existed for a long time as a slang word meaning
‘vigorous activity’, and most particularly ‘sexual intercourse’. Although little
used by white American speakers (but certainly understood), this word has been
so prominent for so long in black speech that we cannot reasonably doubt that it
is the direct source of the name of the music.
Indeed, when in 1919 the first concert by a jazz band was announced in
Columbia, South Carolina, there was thunderstruck horror among the city’s
white and mostly sternly Baptist population, since they had never heard jazz
used in any sense other than ‘copulation’. Such reports appear to confirm the
conclusion that the music takes its name directly from a common but obscene
name for sexual activity.
I mentioned above that no linguists were asking questions about the word jazz
in the 1930s. But a historian of music named Herbert Asbury was in fact
inquiring into the origins of the music at that time. Asbury was not especially
interested in the name, but he nevertheless turned up some possibly valuable
information. According to Asbury, the first known jazz band was a group
formed in New Orleans about 1895 and calling itself the Razzy Dazzy Spasm
Band. Still according to Asbury, around 1900 a second band booked an
appearance at a dance hall using the same name, which provoked some hostility
from the original group. Fearing trouble, the owner of the dance hall altered his
posters to read Razzy Dazzy Jazzy Band, and this, Asbury tells us, was the first
use of jazz in print. Asbury tells us that we can be sure of these things because he
managed to interview two surviving members of the original band. Perhaps, but
these details are not very informative.
So where did this slang word jazz come from to start with? Nobody knows. It
is notoriously difficult to trace the origins of slang words even in highly literate
societies – and southern American black society in the decades after the Civil
War was not especially literate. Naturally, several linguists have suggested that
the word jazz might have been taken from one of the West African languages
spoken by the Africans carried as slaves to the American south before the Civil
War. This is not impossible. But we happen to know quite a bit about the
languages spoken by those slaves, and no such word as jazz has so far been
found in any of them: the closest thing anybody has found is Mandingo jasi ‘act
out of character’ or Temne yas ‘be energetic’, of which the first has a useless
meaning and the second has an unhelpful form. Moreover, apart perhaps from
one or two names of foods, there is as yet no certain case of a word of West
African origin surviving in the speech of African Americans after the Civil War.
It appears that the destruction of African culture and language brought about by
enslavement was so complete that even individual words of the original languages did not survive.
Another possibility is French. While nobody knows exactly where jazz music
originated, the favourite guess of musical historians is the city of New Orleans,
Where do words come from?
49
with its great musical traditions, with its known early jazz bands, with its
celebrated degree of sexual licence, and of course with its French-speaking
culture. A verb jaser is apparently recorded in New Orleans French, with the
senses ‘speed up’, ‘chatter’ and ‘make fun of’. This does not look especially
helpful, even though the meaning of ‘speed up’ is vaguely applicable to jazz
music, some forms of which give the impression of speeding up during the
performance of a piece. But the seemingly required sexual sense is absent from
this word.
More interesting is the French word chasse, whose central sense is ‘chase,
pursuit, hunt’ and whose Old French ancestor is the source of English chase.
French dictionaries report that this word also has various sexual senses, including ‘chasing’ sexual partners (as in English chasing women and skirt-chasing)
and ‘being on heat’ (of a female). In addition, the famous Robert dictionary tells
us that, in the French of New Orleans – of all places – chasse has the obscene
slang sense of ‘sexual intercourse’. This is an intriguing possibility, especially
since some sources report that jazz was sometimes written jass in the earliest
days.
So, we can conclude that the word jazz was coined by English-speaking
African Americans, either before or – more likely – after the Civil War, almost
certainly in the American south. It may well have been coined in New Orleans,
and it may well have been taken from the reportedly obscene local French term
chasse, but we cannot be at all sure about either of these things. For a long time
the word was mainly an obscene sexual term, but, eventually, when an exciting
new form of music developed out of the earlier ragtime, some time around 1900,
the word was for some reason applied to this music. Some scholars speculate
that jazz music originated in the brothels of New Orleans, which we know
provided patrons with music and dancing, as well as with the more obvious
services; this idea provides an instant explanation of the name ‘jazz music’, but
we have no evidence to confirm it.
The connection between obscene sexual terms and music among African
Americans (and others) is hardly confined to this one item. Other musical terms
with sexual origins include boogie-woogie (originally ‘syphilis’), swing (originally ‘copulate’), the juke of juke box (a juke house was a brothel in the south),
and possibly also gig (an old term for the female sexual organs, but this
etymology is far from certain). In addition, the famous early jazz musician
Ferdinand Joseph La Menthe ‘Jelly Roll’ Morton – who once claimed to have
invented the name jazz for the music – took his nickname from jelly roll, a
longstanding slang term for the female sexual organs. The names of later
popular musics derived from African American culture, such as rock ’n’ roll
and funk, appear also to have had strong sexual connotations.
All this is fascinating, but, sadly, it doesn’t add up to a complete account of
the origins of the word jazz. We may never know.
50
Why Do Languages Change?
A pretty story: that dratted moth
In early 2000, Mr Joe Trela was a contestant on the American edition of the TV
quiz programme Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? He did well and reached
the final round. For one million dollars, he was asked this question: ‘What insect
shorted out an early supercomputer and inspired the term “computer bug”?’
Mr Trela replied ‘A moth’, and claimed his million dollars.
The story behind this question is well known. In 1947, a group of US Navy
technical staff were working on an early computer romantically named the
Mark II. The Mark II was hardly a supercomputer: though very large, it was
mechanical and clunky, and less powerful than the calculators given away today
in boxes of corn flakes. One day the machine mysteriously broke down, and at
first no one could figure out what had gone wrong. Eventually one member of
the group opened the machine up and peered inside. Spotting something odd, he
reached in with a pair of tweezers and pulled out the frazzled remains of a moth.
That moth had crept inside the machine and into an electrical relay, shorting out
the machine and frying itself to death.
Afterward, the story was told and retold by another member of the group, a
navy officer named Grace Murray Hopper. Dr Hopper was a brilliant mathematician and a pioneering computer scientist; she was one of the designers of
the computer language Cobol; and she reached the rank of rear admiral before
she retired. Her story was eloquent. ‘From then on’, she said, ‘whenever anything went wrong with a computer, we said it had bugs in it.’
There is hard evidence to back up her story. The US military is nothing if not
meticulous, and the remains of that deceased moth were taped into the group’s
logbook, together with an account of the incident, dated 9 September 1947. The
logbook is now in the Smithsonian Institution’s Museum of American History,
and it still contains what is left of the unfortunate insect – rather more substantial
evidence than word historians can usually hope to uncover.
Without a doubt, this account of the origin of the computer term bug is one of
the most wonderful stories in all of English etymology. Unfortunately, however,
it is not true.
The moth was real enough, and so was its demise inside the Mark II. But this
was not, in fact, the origin of the word bug. Specialists have demonstrated, in
their usual painstaking way, that the term bug, in the sense of ‘obscure fault in a
machine’, was in use long before that moth met its maker inside a US navy
computer.
To start with, you will not be surprised to learn that the Mark II computer had
been preceded by an earlier machine named – wait for it – the Mark I. The Mark
I had been set up by IBM engineers in 1944, and those engineers were already
using bug for a computing fault. In fact, the term bug is recorded as early as
1889, when the British magazine Pall Mall Gazette published an interview with
Where do words come from?
51
the American inventor Thomas Edison, in which Edison remarked that he had
found ‘a bug’ in the phonograph which he was then inventing. The Gazette went
on to explain helpfully that the word bug was ‘an expression for solving a
difficulty, and implying that some imaginary insect has secreted itself inside and
is causing all the trouble’.
Furthermore, examination of Admiral Hopper’s papers, also stored in the
Smithsonian, shows that she and her colleagues had been using bug in the same
sense for several years before the incident with the moth. Very tellingly, the
logbook entry accompanying the deceased moth is labelled ‘first actual case of
bug being found’ – confirming that bug was already familiar to the navy group,
and that they were amused by the coincidence of finding that a bug had been
produced, for once, by a real insect.
So, in spite of what you will read in innumerable books and on countless
websites, the world’s most famous moth had nothing to do with the origin of the
computing term bug. We are looking at an example of a pretty story destroyed
by some ugly facts. How, then, did this word originate? Nobody knows.
A not-so-pretty story: pregnant chads
During the American presidential election of 2000, almost every English
speaker suddenly learned a new word: chad. As everybody now knows, the
state of Florida was using voting machines which recorded a vote by punching a
hole in a card – and the little bit of material punched out of the card is a chad.
Much of the kerfuffle in Florida had to do with chads which failed to let go of the
card but which clung on resolutely, bulging or dangling in some fashion. But
where does the word chad come from? Once again, nobody knows, but the
investigation so far has been interesting.
To begin with, punched cards have been used for decades for storing information and for controlling machines. The giant American multinational IBM,
best known today for its computers, in fact built much of its early success on
manufacturing card-punching machines, before computers were invented.
The floor under a card-punching machine soon becomes covered with a thick
layer of little bits of card that have been punched out. I don’t have to imagine
this, because I’m old enough to remember the 1960s, when computers were
programmed with boxes full of punched cards, and an essential step in doing
anything at all with a computer was punching out a box or two of cards.
There were several names for the refuse on the floor. It was called (keypunch)
droppings, confetti or chaff. This last word is identical to the name of the metal
confetti dropped by warplanes to confuse enemy radar. At some point, however,
the stuff came to be called chad. Originally, this word was uncountable, like
sawdust: you could speak of ‘the chad on the floor’, just like ‘the sawdust on the
floor’, but you couldn’t say ‘a chad’ any more than you can say ‘a sawdust’. But,
52
Why Do Languages Change?
somewhere along the line, the word changed its grammatical behaviour, and a
single punched scrap became a chad.
Most dictionaries agree that chad in this sense is nowhere recorded in writing
before 1959. One dictionary claims 1947, but gives no citation. But these are
citations in writing, and we may reasonably suppose that the word was in
spoken use for some time before it came to be written down.
Five proposals exist to explain the origin of the word.
Proposal one sees chad as an alteration of the more familiar word chaff,
which of course has the same sense. This is not crazy, but a change of /f/ to /d/ is
unusual, to say the least.
Proposal two derives the word from a Scottish dialect word chad, meaning
‘gravel’. Scottish dialect words are not well recorded in most dictionaries, and
even my Scottish dictionary doesn’t have this one, but I’m prepared to believe
that chad means ‘gravel’ somewhere in Scotland. However, the word we are
interested in seems to be chiefly American, and why should an obscure Scots
word be picked up by Americans, long after the main migration of Scots
speakers from Scotland and Ireland to North America in the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries? And why should a word for ‘gravel’ be applied to fluffy
bits of card? The stuff on the floor is really not very much like gravel, and this
idea is only a desperate wild guess.
Proposal three sees chad as an acronym, derived from the initial letters of the
expression card hole aggregate debris. People are always dreaming up these
acronymic stories, and they are almost always fairy tales. Maybe you’ve seen
the story that posh derives from the desire of well-heeled ship passengers to
travel ‘port out, starboard home’. Hardly. Acronyms were very rare in English
before the second half of the twentieth century, and anyway the earlier form of
the word was push, with posh not recorded before 1918. If we want to, we can
invent one of these for just about any word. For example, since English came
into existence as the newly introduced language of southern England, I can
interpret English as ‘emerging new Germanic language in southern hills’.
This took me the better part of three minutes to construct, and very likely you
can do better.
Proposal four is more complicated. Someone has discovered that there once
existed an American card-punching machine which did not punch any material
out of the card: instead, it merely incised a U-shape in the card, and the material
inside the U had to be bent back to produce a hole. And this device was
apparently called the Chadless keypunch. The guess is that this odd device
must have been invented by a certain Mr Chadless, who named it after himself.
The operators who used it noted that, unlike other machines, it produced no
confetti. Since the thing was called a ‘Chadless’ keypunch, they assumed that
the intended sense must be ‘without chad’, and they therefore concluded that
chad must be another word for ‘confetti’.
Where do words come from?
53
But the problem is that no US patent has ever been issued to anyone called
Chadless, and indeed there seems to be no record of a single individual with this
name anywhere in the USA at any time. Moreover, the US Patent Classification
calls the machine a ‘chadless keypunch’, with a small C. We must therefore
presume that this machine was so called because it produced no chad, and that
our word chad is therefore older than this machine.
There remains proposal five, which is the least explicit of all. Long ago, the
US Army was one of the principal users of card-punching machines. It seems
inevitable that the Army’s military users would have coined one or two robust
slang terms for the mess these machines left on the floor, quite possibly slang
terms involving the notion of ‘droppings’. It may be that chad started life as a
cleaned-up version of one of these slang terms. Sadly, the vulgar slang terms
used by a closed group of people are hardly ever documented in writing. Maybe
there’s an ancient American soldier out there who remembers what he and his
buddies were calling the stuff around 1935, but, if so, we haven’t yet tracked
him down.
A scholarly blunder
In linguistics, as in other subjects, scholarly work is not infallible. Sometimes
scholars commit blunders which then have to be recognised and painfully
repaired by later scholars. Here is an example.
English has a word bizarre, meaning ‘very strange’. The same word is found
with the same meaning in French, where the form is bizarre, and in German,
where the form is bizarr, and in Italian, where the form is bizzarro. The Spanish
form is bizarro, but the word has a rather different meaning in Spanish: the
sense there is ‘valiant’, ‘brave’.
The English word is recorded from 1648. Since the French word is recorded
somewhat earlier, in 1533, no one doubts that English has taken the word from
French. But where did the French get it?
In 1607, the Basque writer Baltásar de Etxabe put forward the first-ever
etymological proposal for this word. Etxabe suggested that Spanish bizarro
‘valiant’ must have been taken from the Basque word bizar, which means
‘beard’. His idea was that a beard is a sign of manliness, and therefore of
gallantry and bravery. So, the thinking went, Spanish soldiers, who were
normally bearded in those days, came to be nicknamed bizarros ‘beards’ as a
reflection of their bravery.
This doesn’t seem implausible, but how did the French acquire the word and
assign it such a different meaning? Etxabe didn’t consider this, but somebody
else proposed that the clean-shaven French soldiers were so startled by the
appearance of the bearded Spanish troops – Spain and France were frequently at
war during the period – that they borrowed the Spanish word in the sense of
54
Why Do Languages Change?
‘strange, weird’. And, of course, it was the French sense that was later borrowed
into English, German and Italian.
Etxabe’s proposal leads therefore to the following outline of the history of the
word bizarre:
Basque ‘beard’ > Spanish ‘valiant’ > French ‘strange’ > English, German,
Italian ‘strange’
Many scholars have found this account persuasive. One who certainly did
was the German linguist Friedrich Diez, who almost single-handedly founded
the comparative study of the Romance languages. Diez embraced Etxabe’s idea
and championed it in his publications. As a result of Diez’s influence, this
account of the origin of bizarre has been accepted by scholars for generations. It
is presented as gospel in any number of dictionaries and reference books,
including some of the most serious scholarly publications, and it is repeated
in many popular books on words and word origins. Up and down Britain, pub
quizmasters have for years been asking ‘From what language does the word
bizarre come?’ and demanding the answer ‘Basque’. Just recently, the weekly
quiz in the Guardian newspaper asked the same question and insisted on the
same answer. The Basque origin of bizarre has become for many people just one
more piece of truth.
Engaging as this story is, however, it contains not a grain of truth. In the
1960s, two Spanish linguists became suspicious of the standard story and began
to look into the evidence. In particular, they looked at Italian, which had been
rather neglected in the standard account. According to the standard account,
Italian must have taken its word bizzarro from French. But such a route means
that the word must have existed in French earlier than in Italian. That turned out
not to be the case.
The first record of the word bizarre in French dates from 1533. But Italian
bizzarro, which is supposed to be later than the French word, is in fact very
much earlier. The Italian word is recorded from the thirteenth century onward; it
even occurs in Dante’s classic fourteenth century work The Divine Comedy, and
it is also found in the works of his younger contemporary, Boccaccio.
Words are, of course, commonly recorded in writing only after they have
been in use in speech for some time – perhaps a few weeks or months, perhaps a
hundred years or more. The first record of a word in writing is unlikely to
represent its first use in the language. Nevertheless, something is badly wrong
here. The Italian word bizzarro is recorded in writing nearly three hundred years
earlier than the first record of French bizarre (in 1533) or of Spanish bizarro (in
1528). Moreover, the word is recorded repeatedly and frequently in Italian
during the three centuries in which there is no trace of the word in French or
Spanish. This evidence suggests strongly that the word existed in Italian long,
long before it existed in French or Spanish or any other language, and therefore
Where do words come from?
55
that the standard account of the word is wrong. It looks as if the word originated
in Italian and spread from there to the other European languages.
Of course, the three-century gap doesn’t quite prove that the word originated
in Italian, but it certainly makes any other story awkward and difficult to
maintain. Moreover, the Italian word has an identifiable Italian source: the
Italian word bizza. This word is recorded from the thirteenth century in the
sense ‘quick flash of anger’. The word still exists in modern standard Italian, in
the slightly different sense of ‘tantrum’. Italian bizzarro is clearly derived from
this bizza, since, in its earliest occurrences, Italian bizzarro means ‘tending to
quick flashes of anger’, ‘irascible’. Over time, the word gradually shifted its
meaning in Italian, roughly as follows: ‘tending to quick flashes of anger’ >
‘unpredictable’ > ‘eccentric’ > ‘strange, weird’. In the last few centuries, the
Italian word has meant ‘weird’, and this is the sense in which the word was
taken into French, and from French into English. (Italian also has another
derivative, bizzoso, which means ‘irritable’, ‘wayward’, ‘strange’, but this
word has not been taken into any other languages.)
That leaves the odd Spanish sense unexplained. We still aren’t sure why or
how the word bizarro acquired its quite different sense in Spanish. But in
regional varieties of Italian bizzarro is recorded in favourable senses like
‘spirited’, ‘frisky’, and, in the dialect of the northern Italian city Genoa, even
just plain ‘good’. Probably one of these regional Italian senses was taken into
Spanish.
How did scholars manage to get this story so wrong for so long? After all, the
Italian evidence is abundant and decisive, and the writings of Dante and
Boccaccio are anything but obscure. I surmise that the explanation lies in the
familiar human frailties. Somebody had already told a story about bizarre; that
story looked good on the page; it had been endorsed by eminent philologists and
it appeared in all the best reference sources. The word had apparently already
been dealt with satisfactorily, so why worry about it when there were so many
other problems awaiting urgent attention?
A genuine Basque word in English
As a rule, if you name a language, you can find at least one word which has been
taken into English from that language. English has geyser from Icelandic, ski
from Norwegian, smorgasbord from Swedish, sauna from Finnish, and so on
right across the globe. But Basque is something of a challenge.
We have seen that, in spite of the reference books, the word bizarre is not of
Basque origin. Several people have suggested that the curious word jingo in the
expression By jingo! might derive from Basque jinko ‘god’, but this wild guess
has been disposed of by the philologists, who have demonstrated that By jingo!
originated as a piece of conjurors’ mumbo jumbo, like abracadabra. The
56
Why Do Languages Change?
American word chaparral ‘dense, shrubby and thorny vegetation’ derives from
Spanish chaparra, which may in turn be taken from Basque txapar, of somewhat similar meaning, but the history of these words is murky and uncertain.
An English word that does derive from Basque is jai alai, the name of the
sport – a member of the squash family – in which each player catches and flings
the ball with a long wicker basket strapped to his arm. But there’s something
strange about this borrowing: the name jai alai is not used in Basque.
The Basques are a plain and blunt people who care little for airs and graces.
The Basque word for ‘ball’ is pilota, borrowed from Spanish pelota. And the
game of jai alai, a Basque invention and the Basque national game, is just called
in Basque pilota – or ‘ball’.
In the late nineteenth century, the Basque Romantic writer Serafín Baroja
found himself mulling over the observation that the Basque national game was
known in Basque by a foreign name. He resolved to create a native Basque
name for the sport, and the name he came up with was jai alai – from Basque jai
‘festival’ and alai ‘happy, merry’ – and therefore literally ‘merry festival’.
This coinage met no enthusiasm among the Basques, who continued to call
their game pilota, as they still do today. Oddly, though, the new name jai alai
gained a foothold in Spanish, and from Spanish it passed into American
English. Today jai alai is an important sport, not only in the Basque Country
but also in much of Latin America and in parts of the United States, especially
Florida. The game is always called jai alai in English, and so this is an English
word which has been taken from Basque, but a rather strange one, since this
‘Basque’ name is not used at all in Basque.
If you visit a large Basque town with a jai-alai court, you will find that the
local people call the game pilota, just as a jai-alai player is called a pilotari.
Nobody calls the game jai alai in Basque. However, there is one more thing.
Somewhere within fifty yards of the jai-alai court you will certainly find a bar
called Bar Jai-Alai. But that’s as far as it goes.
Putting aside the rather peculiar case of jai alai, there is still one familiar
English word which is beyond question of Basque origin, though the English
meaning bears no relation to the Basque meaning and results from an accident. It is
most unlikely that you could ever guess the identity of the one English word which
derives indisputably from Basque: it’s silhouette. This will take a little explaining.
Basque has two different kinds of S sound, distinguished by two slightly
different positions of the tongue. The two sounds are spelled Z and S in Basque
orthography, although the sound spelled Z is the one that is more similar to the
sound /s/ in English. This sound occurs in the word zulo, which means ‘hole’.
This word occurs as the first element in a surname whose second element is
the extremely common suffix -eta, which means ‘(place with) lots of’. So, the
surname Zuloeta, often pronounced and spelled Zulueta, means ‘the place with
lots of holes (in the ground)’.
Where do words come from?
57
On the north side of the Pyrenees, the French Basques pronounce the word
for ‘hole’ slightly differently: their form is zilho. The surname just mentioned
accordingly appears in northern Basque as Zilhueta. This name was taken into
French in the form Silhouette.
Étienne de Silhouette was an eighteenth-century French politician of some
note. Silhouette was of Basque origin and bore a Basque surname, but he spoke
no Basque at all, and considered himself a Frenchman. In the 1750s, Silhouette
served the French government as minister of finance. In this post, he soon
acquired an unenviable reputation for penny-pinching and cheese-paring. And
then something else happened: Silhouette’s surname became a popular label for
an artistic representation of the bare profile of a face.
Nobody is sure just why this happened, and proposals are numerous. Perhaps
the sketchy and unfinished appearance of a silhouette reminded people of
Silhouette’s financial skimping. Perhaps Silhouette himself made a hobby of
constructing such drawings. We will probably never know, but there is no doubt
at all that, during Silhouette’s term in office, silhouette became the ordinary
French word for an outline drawing of a face in profile. By 1785 this French
word had been taken into English as the name for such a drawing intended as a
minor work of art, although it was not until about 1870 that the English word
came to be applied more generally to anything seen in outline.
So, a Basque surname meaning ‘the place with lots of holes’ has passed via
French into English as our everyday word for something seen only in outline.
All this is the result of a series of accidents that took place in France in the
eighteenth century. If Silhouette had borne a different name, our word meaning
‘silhouette’ would now be something completely different, while, if Silhouette
had merely had a different policy, we might not have a word meaning ‘silhouette’ at all. Who knows?
Making up our own words
Not all English words derive from Anglo-Saxon, Latin or Old French (or,
indeed, from any language directly). Recall from Chapter 1 the huge number
of words which have entered English since the Second World War. New words
pour into English every year, so many that some publishers bring out annual
volumes of last year’s new words.
These new words are of every kind. Many are technical and formal. A few
years ago, for example, scientists discovered that radon gas was seeping out of
the granite bedrock in Cornwall and into houses built on the rock. Since radon is
radioactive, its presence can make the people in an affected house sick, and so
the medical scientists have coined the new word geopathic – literally ‘involving
earth-illness’ – as a label for such illnesses. But many of our new words arise in
far more informal ways.
58
Why Do Languages Change?
Around the beginning of the eighteenth century, there arose something of a
fashion in England for shortening long words: for example, reputation was
shortened to rep, and positively to pozz. This fashion was roundly condemned
by Jonathan Swift and other linguistic conservatives of the day, and it soon died
out with few lasting consequences. But one of these new short forms has
survived to our own day. The Latin phrase mobile vulgus, ‘the fickle crowd’,
was used in English as a label for the mass of ordinary people, seen by the upper
classes as irresponsible and untrustworthy. The fashion for shortening converted this into mob, and mob has remained in the language, although its
sense has generally shifted to that of an unruly or violent crowd.
Linguists call this process clipping, the extraction of a short part of a longer
word or phrase in order to obtain a new and shorter word of the same meaning.
The eighteenth-century taste for clipping did not long survive, but a new
enthusiasm for clipping has arisen in our own day. We now clip our words far
more eagerly than Swift’s contemporaries ever did, and we pay no attention to
any critics who may inveigh against our practice.
(Incidentally, the word mob has undergone some remarkable developments in
Australia. First, it has become the ordinary group noun for kangaroos:
Australians speak of a mob of roos. Second, it has acquired the new sense of
‘group of people’. This sense is especially common in Aboriginal English, as in
My mob lives Yuendemu way. Finally, I am told by a colleague in Australia that
the word, in the assimilated form mapa, has been taken into several native
Australian languages as a plural marker for nouns!)
We have clipped brassière to bra, violoncello to cello, gymnasium to gym,
telephone to phone, influenza to flu, refrigerator to fridge, alligator to gator,
crocodile to croc, hippopotamus to hippo, rhinoceros to rhino and of course
omnibus to bus.
And we seem to be always on the lookout for a chance to clip something else.
We now often see magazine clipped to mag, bisexual to bi, cigarette to cig,
university to uni, difference to diff (as in What’s the diff?), and promotion to
promo, to name just a few.
Occasionally we decorate our clippings with a diminutive suffix -ie or -y. This
gives us budgie ‘budgerigar’, hankie ‘handkerchief’, barbie ‘barbecue’, Australian
umpy ‘umpire’ (but compare American ump and British nothing), British telly
‘television’, granny ‘grandmother’, Australian Uey ‘U-turn’, and British Corrie for
Coronation Street, the name of a soap opera. Several decades ago, the exciting new
word transistor radio was rapidly clipped in Britain to tranny, but advances in
technology have already made both forms obsolete (not helped, perhaps, by the
development of the identical clipped form used for transvestite).
Sometimes a different suffix is preferred. The Australians have something of a
taste for -o, as in arvo ‘afternoon’, milko ‘milkman’, reffo ‘refugee’, garbo
‘garbage collector’, ambo ‘ambulanceman, paramedic’ and the amazing Seppo
Where do words come from?
59
‘American’. This word is very widespread, and young Australians use it without
knowing where it comes from: it’s a clipping of septic tank, old rhyming slang for
Yank. Upper-middle-class British English is inordinately fond of -ers and -er, as in
champers from champagne, Roller from Rolls-Royce, the celebrated cricket
commentators Blowers and Johnners (Henry Blofeld and Brian Johnston), rugger
from rugby football, and the now fossilised case of soccer from association
football. Popular British English likes -s, as in turps for turpentine or as in
Becks, from David Beckham, a prominent soccer player.
Clippings can be more complex with the extraction of multiple pieces, as in
the clipping of science fiction to sci-fi, of biographical picture to biopic, of
British methylated spirits to meths, or of British mathematics to maths (compare
American math). And, of course, the TV series Absolutely Fabulous has seldom
been known as anything but Ab Fab.
The meaning of a clipped form is generally the same as that of its source, but
the shorter form is often much more informal. The informal nature of hippo,
hankie, fridge and telly should be obvious, while prez for president and tache for
moustache are very informal indeed. On the other hand, the originally clipped
forms cello, bus, mob and bra have entirely lost their earlier informal status and
become the ordinary words for what they denote. On occasion, a clipped form
can be dismissive. For example, lesbian has the clipped forms lez and lezzy; my
dictionary labels both of these ‘informal’, but in my experience they are
offensive (and aggressive) more often than not.
A rare example of a clipped form which has shifted its meaning is varsity.
This started life as a clipping of university, and it reflects a now-obsolete
pronunciation of that word. But the meaning of the word has drifted away
from that of its source: it is now mainly applied to sports teams, and in American
English it has lost almost all connection with universities, and is chiefly used of
high-school sports teams.
Observe that clipped forms are real words, and not merely abbreviations. They
behave like other words. First, clipped forms can be inflected just like other words
(gyms, fridges, crocs, buses). Note the interesting case of the clipped form of
disrespect, coined in the 1980s. This is diss, also spelled dis, and it started life as a
noun, as in The shock jocks are filling their air time with diss. But it was quickly
converted to a verb, and it instantly acquired all the inflected forms of a verb, as in
He was dissing me and It ain’t no brother that disses us like that.
Second, clipped forms can form compounds like other words (gym shoes,
fridge magnet, croc handler, bus stop). Indeed, while a gym may still be a
gymnasium in some contexts, it is scarcely possible to speak of gymnasium
shorts or gymnasium shoes. And nobody would dream of referring to the
American baseball player Hippo Vaughn as Hippopotamus Vaughn.
Third, clipped forms are entered as words in good dictionaries; and they are
legal in tournament Scrabble™. If you check the Scrabble™ dictionary which is
60
Why Do Languages Change?
official in your country (different English-speaking countries use different
ones), you will find almost every one of my examples entered, though one or
two of the most recent and informal coinages will probably be absent.
Clipping is just one of a number of engaging techniques used in recent years
to create new English words from existing resources, without appealing to
foreign languages. Another is blending, in which pieces of two existing words
are combined to create another. Familiar examples include smog (smoke plus
fog), brunch (breakfast plus lunch), motel (motor plus hotel), guesstimate
(guess plus estimate) and Paralympics (paraplegic plus Olympics). Blends
are greatly favoured by advertisers and promoters trying to draw attention to
their products, and such coinages as sexsational, infomercial and rockumentary
have now achieved at least a marginal foothold in the language.
Yet another procedure is back-formation, in which an apparent affix is
removed from a word. Unlike my other processes, back-formation is not always
deliberate. English used to have the words pease for a kind of vegetable and
cherries for a kind of fruit; both of these were singular, but they happened to end
in what sounded to English speakers like a plural ending, and so this nonexistent ‘plural’ ending was removed to create new singulars, pea and cherry,
which had not previously existed.
Our word sculptor is taken straight from Latin. It happens to end in what
sounds like the familiar agent suffix -er, as in singer and painter, and as a result
this non-existent suffix was removed to produce the new verb sculpt. This is
now what sculptors do: they sculpt. Latin editor and French burglar have
likewise led to the verbs edit and burgle.
Different again is reanalysis, in which a word is broken up into pieces which do
not at all represent its original structure. A familiar case is provided by hamburger,
which is taken from German, in which it consists of the city name Hamburg and
the German suffix -er, meaning ‘from’. A Hamburger is therefore someone from
Hamburg, just as a Frankfurter is from Frankfurt and a Wiener is from Wien
(Vienna). As well as being applied to citizens of these places, these adjectives
can also be applied to their products. In the case of Frankfurt and Vienna, the
added -er is normally associated with a particular type of sausage (the Berliner, on
the other hand, is a type of doughnut). Strangely, the beef patty named the
hamburger is not the native sausage of the north German city of Hamburg,
however. A long debate continues on how the product came to be called this,
but it isn’t important for this discussion: the word-formation pattern is the same.
English speakers in North America, however, came to reanalyse the word.
Because a hamburger contains meat, and ham is the name of a kind of meat
(even though it’s the wrong meat), the word began to be broken down as though
it were ham plus burger, and as a result we now have cheeseburgers, vegeburgers, chickenburgers, and who knows how many more. In Britain, things
have gone so far that the original article is now called a beefburger.
Where do words come from?
61
Remember the word bikini, which was taken from the name of the Pacific atoll
where some early atomic bombs were tested, because of the ‘explosive’ effect of
the new outfit at a time when women’s bathing costumes normally covered a great
deal more skin than they do now. When an even more shocking costume was
introduced a couple of decades later, consisting only of the bottom half of a bikini,
a new name was clearly called for. Some wag noticed that the first syllable of
bikini was, entirely by chance, bi-, which looks like the element meaning ‘two’, as
in bifocals, bilateral and bisexual. That wag therefore ‘replaced’ this ‘prefix’ with
the element mono-, meaning ‘one’, as in monosyllabic, and came up with monokini for the scandalous new costume. This name has remained rather marginal in
English, but it has become fully established in French, where it is so familiar that
it has already undergone clipping: today no fashionable young French woman
wears anything at the beach other than le mono.
A somewhat different case of reanalysis is provided by that now unavoidable
prefix mini-. English has long had the words minimum and miniature. These
words are not connected in any way, and the resemblance in form is purely by
chance. But both words happen to have meanings involving ‘very small’.
Around 1960, somebody seized upon this observation, extracted a new prefix
mini-, meaning ‘very small’, and used it to coin that pioneering word miniskirt.
(If you can remember the earlier knee-peeper, you have seen a few fashions
come and go.) Since then, this entirely new prefix has exploded across the
language: nothing is miniature any more, and hardly anything is even small.
Instead, we have mini-books, mini-series, mini-cakes, mini-courses, and even,
for all I know, mini-wars.
The rarest way of obtaining new words in English is to construct them out of
thin air. Yet this does happen occasionally.
On the back of almost every book – probably including this one – there is a
paragraph telling you how wonderful the book is and why you absolutely have to
buy it. This paragraph formerly had no name, but publishers have to talk about it,
and so they needed a name. In the early years of the twentieth century, a publisher
invited the American humorist Gelett Burgess to coin a name. Burgess’s inspired
proposal was blurb: he coined this word out of thin air, but ever since his day this
has been the name for that paragraph on the back of a book.
Another example comes from mathematics. The number ten to the power one
hundred – written in digits as one followed by a hundred zeros – is not
mathematically special, but it engages the imagination of us human beings. In
the 1930s, the American mathematician Edward Kasner asked his nine-year-old
nephew to coin a name for this number. What Kasner got was googol, and
mathematicians have used this label ever since in their popular writings, though
they seldom use it among themselves. The word has even given rise to a
derivative, googolplex, the name for the unimaginably huge number written
as one followed by a googol of zeros.
62
Why Do Languages Change?
A final example of coinage from thin air comes from chemistry. In the 1930s,
chemists managed to synthesise a new polymer with remarkably appealing
properties, including the capacity to provide the sheerest and sexiest women’s
stockings ever worn. Needing a name for their wonderful stuff, the chemists
came up with nylon, a name again coined from nothing because of its agreeable
sound. (Some popular books will tell you a pretty story about New York and
London, but sadly this is fiction.)
It is even possible for new words to be created by mistake. English has long
had a word darkling, meaning ‘almost dark’, and formed historically by adding
to dark the suffix -ling. Encountering this word, the Romantic poet Lord Byron
(1788–1824) misunderstood it. He took it to be the -ing form of a supposed verb
darkle, and so he extracted this item in all innocence and began using it in his
poems as a verb meaning ‘get dark’. Several other nineteenth-century writers
picked up the new word from Byron and used it in their own writing, and in fact
the word darkle enjoyed some currency in Victorian literature before finally
dropping almost entirely out of use. It is rather as though Byron had encountered the phrase my darling wife and concluded that my wife darls a lot.
A word created by mistake has been dubbed a mumpsimus, and another
English mumpsimus is the now rather old-fashioned helpmeet, meaning ‘a
companion who gives assistance’. English used to have an adjective meet,
meaning ‘suitable’, ‘proper’. In the King James Bible of 1611, Genesis 2:18
tells us that God created Adam’s future wife as ‘an help meet for him’ – that is,
suitable for him. But, in a seventeenth-century printing of the Bible, this phrase
was mistakenly put on the page as ‘an help-meet for him’. As a result, many
readers took helpmeet to be a single English word, and they assigned to this
word the obvious meaning. But, since the second part of the new helpmeet
seemed mysterious, the word was altered by some writers in the eighteenth
century to helpmate, which seems to make more sense.
One last example is the fabric name tweed. The original form was twill, which
still exists in English. In Scotland, the local form of this word was tweel. Then,
in 1831, this Scots word appeared in the catalogue of a Scottish cloth manufacturer, where it was either misprinted (according to one account) or misread
by a London hatter (according to another account) as tweed. This mistaken form
seems to have been reinforced by the existence of the Tweed, the river separating
Scotland from England.
Runcible
I will close this chapter with a word whose origin troubled people for a long
time. The Victorian nonsense-writer Edward Lear’s most famous poem is
probably The Owl and the Pussycat. In that poem we read that the two title
characters ‘dined upon mince, and slices of quince, which they ate with a
Where do words come from?
63
runcible spoon’. A good dictionary will tell you that this gadget is in fact a
bizarre combination of a fork and a knife with a spoon-like shape: it is a fork,
usually with three sharp prongs, the whole curved like the bowl of a spoon, with
the outer edge of one prong sharpened like a knife.
But where did this odd-looking name come from? Lear’s is the earliest known
mention of the name, so it appears that he invented it, long before the gadget
itself was invented: an unusual case of a thing being invented to go with its
name. Proposals were varied. Perhaps the name comes from the obsolete
English word rouncival, the name of a kind of large pea. Or perhaps Lear
based the word on the name of Robert Runcie, who was the Chief Under Butler
at Knowsley Hall, near Liverpool, where Lear was employed for a while by the
owner, the Earl of Derby. Why Runcie? Because it was his responsibility to
clean the silver spoons. Then again, perhaps Lear was making fun of his friend
George Runcy, who held ‘advanced’ views about raising children and who had
designed a new kind of angled spoon that allowed very small children to feed
themselves. These appear to be deep waters, and we are in danger of testy
scholarly exchanges.
But recall the importance, in etymological work, of scrutinising all the
evidence. In this case, the most useful material to examine is the whole corpus
of Lear’s nonsense verses. When we do that, we discover that Lear used the
word runcible on several occasions, and applied it to all sorts of things. For
example, the Pobble’s Aunt Jobisa possessed a runcible cat, with crimson
whiskers, and elsewhere Lear writes of a runcible hat, a runcible goose and a
runcible wall. We may safely conclude, I think, that Lear coined the nonsense
word runcible out of thin air, because he liked the sound of it. If we think only of
runcible spoons, that is probably only because The Owl and the Pussycat is the
one piece of Lear’s that most of us have read.
Conclusion
This chapter has demonstrated that, while definite patterns underlie word formation and word origin, the ways in which they are employed often appear
random, and are definitely fickle. In the next chapter we will consider a
particular type of word formation which is, if anything, even more eccentric
and often has considerable time depth: place names.
4
Skunk-Leek – my kind of town:
what’s in a name?
Names are peculiar
Far more than ordinary words, names develop historically in ways which are
complicated, unexpected and downright peculiar. Names are subject to all
sorts of local and idiosyncratic changes, and we usually cannot predict how
one name will behave by watching what happens to another one.
For example, I live in the English city of Brighton. What is the origin of
this name? The ending looks familiar enough: there are hundreds of settlement names ending in -ton, which represents the Old English word tūn
‘enclosed piece of land’, ‘homestead’, later ‘village’. But this leaves us
apparently stuck with bright, certainly a good English word, but one that
would be singular in its construction for all English names from that period.
Often we find -ton attached to a personal name, as in Edgbaston, from the
Old English personal name Ecgbald, and thus meaning ‘Ecgbald’s homestead’, or to the name of a geographical feature, as in the common Stratton,
whose first element is Old English strǣt ‘Roman road’, so that the whole is
‘village by a Roman road’. The use of an adjective like bright in this context
would be otherwise unknown, however.
The study of names depends absolutely upon the scrutiny of documents,
and in this case we are lucky enough to have documentation of the history
of the name. The earlier form of Brighton, our documents reveal, was
Bristelmestun, or Brighthelmston, a perfectly ordinary and transparent name
meaning ‘Brighthelm’s homestead’. The name has simply been rearranged
over the centuries into the shorter modern form. Such drastic shortening is
seldom observed in ordinary words, but, when it comes to names, almost
nothing is out of bounds, and we must rely on our documentation to clarify
the origins of names.
Nobody knows who Brighthelm was, since he makes no appearance in
historical records. Presumably he was a local magnate of some standing. In
any case, it appears that a village springing up on his land was the origin of
modern Brighton, famous resort town, favourite of the Prince Regent, home of
the Royal Pavilion, setting for the novel and the film Brighton Rock, overrun
each summer by tourists and English-language students, renowned as the gay
64
Skunk-Leek – my kind of town: what’s in a name?
65
capital of Britain, site of one of the oldest nudist beaches in Britain, and home
to two universities, at one of which I work. I wonder what Brighthelm would
make of all this.
The branch of etymology dealing with the origins of names is called onomastics, and onomastics, even more than most etymological work, calls for
some rather special talents and techniques. For example, if you are trying to
uncover the original form and meaning of an opaque town name, and your
preliminary investigations lead you to suspect an ancient compound meaning
‘heather-valley’, then you need to establish at least two things pretty quickly
before you can usefully continue this line of investigation. First, the town
must be located in a valley, or at least in something that might pass muster as
a valley. Second, there must be heather growing in the area, or at least there
must be evidence that heather formerly grew there in some abundance.
These requirements are often not obvious to non-professionals. Many nonprofessionals are completely happy to accept a name meaning ‘heather-valley’
without scrutiny, even if the town bearing this name is located on top of the
only hill in the middle of a vast plain with no heather growing within hundreds
of miles in any direction. Many non-professionals, in other words, are happy
to believe that logic as we now analyse it did not exist in the past.
True, such wholly inappropriate names really are conferred once in a while.
Around a thousand years ago, Eric the Red, an exile from Iceland, discovered
a large expanse of land to the north and west of his homeland. He promptly
named this island Greenland. I have flown over Greenland in an airliner, and
I can confirm that, apart from a few dark smudges of bare land along the
coast, Greenland is uniformly a brilliant white, because it is buried beneath
one of the greatest unbroken masses of ice on the planet.
So why did Eric name the place Greenland? It appears that he had a political
agenda. He was hoping to establish a settlement, and to attract settlers to
populate it, and so he needed an appealing name. Something like ‘Grim
Expanse of Unbroken Ice’ would probably have pulled in few settlers, and so
Eric manufactured Greenland out of his unassisted imagination, hoping that
the very name would attract settlers from Iceland – which, in spite of its name,
is in fact much less icy than Greenland.
Such shenanigans are not unknown in our own day. The developers of
a new town are very likely to give the place a name like Cedar Valley or Palm
Springs, hoping to attract eager buyers, even though the first people to move
in may find nothing more than a few houses sitting in a sea of bare mud
decorated with building rubble.
And occasionally we find a name conferred for undeniably sarcastic reasons. In the eighteenth century, there was in a certain area of London a
public facility of the type then delicately called a laystall. This was a place
where citizens could dispose of their waste – in the blunt modern American
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Why Do Languages Change?
phrase, a city dump. By one means or another, this pile of rotting rubbish
acquired the label Mount Pleasant, and this name stuck. Today the site is
occupied by the Royal Mail’s principal sorting office in London, and the
Mount Pleasant Sorting Office must be one of the few places in the world
with a name commemorating the former existence of a pile of garbage.
As a rule, however, eccentric names of this type are not conferred by
people who actually live in the places with the names, and the traditional
names of settlements always made perfect sense to the settlers who gave
those names.
It is important to realise that names make sense when they are conferred,
even though later changes may render those names entirely opaque to us.
Consider the town of Bridgwater in Somerset. At first glance, this name is
obvious: it’s bridge plus water, end of discussion. But, if you think about it
a moment, you will realise that such a name makes little sense. Why on
earth would anybody name a place ‘bridge-water’? Surely almost all bridges
do just that.
Once again, we must turn to the documents. The Domesday Book (the
great tax census carried out by William the Conqueror’s Exchequer in the
1080s) has the odd-looking Brigealtier, but otherwise the earliest document to
contain the name, dated 1194, writes it as Brigewaltier, which is ‘BridgeWalter’. In other words, there is no water in the name at all, but only a man
named Walter. The sense of the name was ‘[place at a] bridge [held by a man
named] Walter’ – or, in modern English, ‘Walter’s bridge’.
This outcome is not really surprising, because the sound /l/ was lost from
the pronunciation of the name Walter centuries ago, even though we continue
to write the name with the letter L, just as we write walk, talk, folk and yolk
today where the /l/ was lost centuries ago. The surnames Waters and Waterson
both mean ‘son of Walter’, just as Jones and Johnson both mean ‘son of
John’. A certain Walter Tyler, who led the Peasants’ Rebellion in fourteenthcentury England, is known to history as Wat Tyler. The famous Elizabethan
courtier Sir Walter Raleigh almost certainly pronounced his name ‘Water’ –
indeed, the title of one of his most accomplished poems, The Ocean’s Love to
Cynthia, dedicated to Queen Elizabeth I of England, only makes sense if
it is interpreted as Wa(l)ter’s love for the Virgin Goddess (in other words,
Elizabeth). Only in modern times have we generally put that long-lost /l/ back
into the pronunciation of Walter, under the influence of the spelling.
Slightly more complicated is the name of Shrewsbury in Shropshire in the
west of England. This name is pronounced SHROZE-b’ry in Britain, except
curiously in Shropshire itself, where the local pronunciation is SHROOZE-b’ry.
The spelling suggests a connection with shrews, the tiny animals, while the
majority pronunciation hints instead at a possible connection with Shrove
Tuesday, the day before the beginning of Lent in February each year. But, as
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67
always, staring at the modern form of a name and making guesses is a waste
of time. When we consult the documents, we find that the earliest recorded
form of the name is Scrobbesbyrig. This name plainly contains the dative
form of the very common Old English element burg ‘fortified place’, which
still occurs today in dozens of place names, variously rendered as -burg, -burgh,
-bury, -borough, -brough or -boro. But the first element is less obvious.
Some scholars prefer to interpret the name as ‘Scrobb’s fortified place’,
and thus as preserving a record of a now-forgotten local magnate who
rejoiced in the name Scrobb, even though no such personal name is otherwise recorded. Most specialists, however, see the first element as nothing
more than Old English scrybb ‘scrubland’, the ancestor of modern English
shrub and of its variant scrub. This yields the etymology ‘fortified place of
the scrubland’ – not very romantic, perhaps, but then most names have
wholly unromantic origins. The name Mississippi may conjure up romantic
visions of riverboat gamblers and Huck Finn, but it just means ‘big river’ in a
local language. And the name of Prague may evoke elegant medieval
architecture garnished with a whiff of Cold War espionage, but it appears
to derive from a Slavonic word meaning ‘woodland cleared by burning’.
The fascinating story of Pimlico
Let’s take a look at the uncovering of the origin of a difficult name. The name
I have chosen is Pimlico, whose story was worked out only a few years ago
by my colleague Richard Coates. Although it is fairly typical of onomastic
work, the story of Pimlico is particularly interesting.
Pimlico is today the name of a well-known district in southwest London,
located within the borough of Westminster, most famous, perhaps, as the
setting for the post-war Ealing Comedy Passport to Pimlico. The name is
also found elsewhere in Britain and in Ireland, but these other occurrences
are all first recorded considerably later than that of the Westminster Pimlico,
and are presumably derived from it. The name Pimlico is first recorded for
the place in Westminster in 1626, but this is not the earliest occurrence of
the name.
Quite a few years earlier, we find the name Pimlico attached to a small
district in a northern part of London called Hoxton. In particular, it was
given to a celebrated and exceedingly popular ale-house located there. This
ale-house was located close to a couple of theatres, and it is mentioned in a
number of literary and theatrical works composed between 1609 and about
1658, including Ben Jonson’s famous play The Alchemist, written in 1610.
As long ago as 1849, an earlier investigator established that the earliest
recorded reference to the name occurs in a tract published in 1598, called
Newes from Hogsdon [i.e. Hoxton], which contains the line ‘Have at thee,
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Why Do Languages Change?
then, my merrie boyes, and hey for old Ben Pimlico’s nut browne.’ This allows
scholars to conclude that Ben Pimlico was the name of the publican who
owned the ale-house, and that his surname was transferred in turn to his
ale, to his establishment, and to his house and a neighbouring alley. So far,
so good, but now we run into a blank wall: no such surname as Pimlico is
recorded anywhere else at all, and its formation is utterly opaque. There the
matter rested for a century and a half, until Coates took up the chase.
Coates began by noting that the name is sometimes given in early sources
as Pemlico, a fact which will be important. Then, finding no joy in Britain,
he directed his inquiries to North America. His attention was immediately
drawn to North Carolina, where the stretch of water lying between the Outer
Banks and the coast proper is called Pamlico Sound. This sound takes its
name from the river flowing into it, today called the Tar-Pamlico, but
formerly, the records confirm, named simply the Pamlico. And the river in
turn takes its name from that of a now vanished Native American people who
once lived along its banks; their Algonquian name would more typically
have been Pamticough, but either the local pronunciation was different or
English-speaking settlers altered this to Pamlico. This Pamlico is very similar
to the early variant Pemlico of the name we are interested in.
Did Coates immediately declare that he had found the origin of the name
Pimlico? Certainly not, because that would be deeply unprofessional. For all
anyone knows, there might be dozens of names resembling Pimlico in locations ranging from Montevideo through Mozambique to Mongolia. It is a
constant error of linguistic amateurs and cranks to assume that, because they
have uncovered a resemblance, they have identified the origin of the name
they are playing with. The crucial part is to provide a pathway: to show, in
our case, how the name could reasonably have travelled from North Carolina
to London by 1598, especially since this was a time when no permanent
English-speaking settlement had yet been founded in North America. (That
first permanent settlement was Jamestown, in Virginia, founded in 1607.)
However, Pamlico Sound is by no means a totally insignificant locale in
the English settlement of North America, for at its northern end there
lies the island of Roanoke, the site of Sir Walter Raleigh’s abortive first
attempts at establishing an American colony, in 1585 and 1587. This is just
early enough to pre-date that reference to Ben Pimlico in 1598, and so Coates
turned his attention to the Roanoke settlers, noting first that a 1747 map of
London records a street called Virginia Row not far from Pimlico’s alehouse, which perhaps reinforces the suspicion that some of the returned
Roanoke colonists might have settled in Hoxton.
Some of those colonists did indeed return from Roanoke to England;
when Sir Francis Drake brought them back on his returning ship in 1586.
The names of some of the returning colonists are recorded, and, fascinatingly,
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69
two of them were named Bennet Chappell and Bennet Harrye. Coates therefore wondered whether one of these men, as a result of some unrecorded
incident while he was living at Roanoke, might have acquired the nickname
‘Pemlico’ or ‘Pimlico’, and whether he might have brought this nickname
back to England with him and used it as a surname (until quite recently,
what surname you used was fluid), perhaps out of pride (the incident reflected
well on him) or out of whimsy (the incident was funny, and he had a sense
of humour). Coates notes further that one of the reasons for the great popularity of Pimlico’s ale-house seems to have been the availability there of a
novel pleasure, that most famous product of Virginia and North Carolina,
tobacco. Possibly Ben Pimlico, having become acquainted with the weed
while at Roanoke, had taken steps to obtain a supply for his establishment.
That would seem to be that, but things are rarely so simple in this line of
work. Just about to submit his account for publication, Coates stumbled
across two more instances of Pimlico, instances which appeared to cast
doubt on his conclusion. First, there is a Pimlico Island near Bermuda, a
name for which we have no information at all about its earliest use. Second,
there are several early references to a bird called the pemblico, found all
along the Atlantic coast and, according to the 1624 account of Captain John
Smith, leader of the Jamestown settlement, so called because that’s what
the bird’s cry sounds like. (This bird is now known as Audubon’s shearwater.)
Could it be, then, that Coates’s account is a hopeless fabrication, and that all
the Pimlicos in fact take their names from nothing more than the imitative
name given to this noisy bird?
Nothing for it, then, but to go back to the documents. This time Coates
found an account of the history of the Bahamas, of uncertain authorship but
dating from around 1630. And this account contains the following illuminating passage: ‘Another smale Birde ther is, the which, by some Ale-banters
of London sent ouer hether, hath bin tearmed pimplicoe, for so they Imagine
(and a little resemblance putts them in mind of a place so dearly beloued)
her note articulates.’ In other words, the name was given to the bird by a group
of Londoners arriving in the Bahamas merely because its cry reminded
them of the name of their favourite ale-house, the celebrated and fashionable
Ben Pimlico’s of Hoxton.
Coates’s story is therefore complete. Having originated in North America,
the name Pimlico was carried to London, where it became a famous name,
later to be transferred to a district of Westminster and elsewhere, and, scarcely
two decades after its successful establishment in London, back to North
America, where some of Ben Pimlico’s homesick former customers gave the
name to a noisy bird.
Coates therefore concludes that Pimlico is probably the first American
name to be carried to Britain, and certainly the first name derived from a native
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Why Do Languages Change?
American language to take root in Britain. The origin of the Algonquian name
Pamticough is unknown, though it may be a derivative of an earlier name of
the river.
This vignette well illustrates the central requirements of good onomastic
work: the importance
of locating and consulting all available documentation, especially the
earliest documentation;
of taking into account all the information, and not just the bits that please
you;
of ensuring the linguistic forms are sensible and appropriate at the time
at which the names were conferred;
of ensuring that dates tally, so that names are not obliged to travel backward
in time;
of providing a plausible pathway by which the name could have got to
where it is attested by the time it is attested;
of being prepared to consider alternative accounts to the one you have already
settled on as the likeliest.
To these I might add one more which did not happen to feature prominently
in our case: the importance of evaluating the reliability of your sources.
Just as you can’t believe everything you read in the newspaper, you can’t
believe everything you read in even the most impressively dusty piece of
parchment or vellum. Four hundred years ago, people were making just
as many mistakes as we make today, and they were telling just as many lies.
Names and prehistory
North of the Black Sea lies a vast area of grassland, the Pontic steppe. In
historical times these steppes have been occupied by speakers of Slavonic
languages, Russians and Ukrainians, and we think of the steppes as the
roaming ground of the famous Cossack horsemen. But the origins of the
river names are interesting.
One of the great rivers of the steppes is the Don, made famous by the
Russian writer Mikhail Sholokhov in his Cossack novels like And Quiet
Flows the Don. To the west of the Don are three more great rivers, the
Donets, the Dniester and the Dnieper. Specialists established long ago
that all four of these names are built on a word dānu, meaning ‘river’. There
is nothing surprising about this, except that this dānu is not a Slavonic word:
it is an Iranian word.
Today the Iranian languages extend from the Caucasus and eastern Turkey
across Iran and Afghanistan into Pakistan – all entirely outside the Pontic
steppe. Among the best-known Iranian languages are Kurdish, Persian and
Pashto, although many others are spoken. But these river names tell us that
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71
Iranian languages were once spoken across the Pontic steppes, long enough
for the Iranian river names to become established and to be taken over by the
Slavs when these people later settled in the area.
This is an example of how linguistic information from place names can
often shed light on the prehistory of a region. In this case, we are lucky enough
to know something about the identity of those ancient Iranian speakers:
they were, in fact, the celebrated Scythians, Parthians and Sarmatians, who
inhabited the steppe in the days of the ancient Greeks and Romans. But, even
if we knew nothing about the Scythians and their relatives, we could still
safely infer the former presence of Iranian-speakers in the steppes, through
their linguistic legacy, the river names they left behind.
In fact, of all geographical features, rivers are perhaps the most likely to
preserve ancient names from long-gone languages. In Britain, English speakers have taken over dozens of river names from the Celtic speakers who were
there long ago: the Thames, the Clyde, the Dee, the Humber, the Tyne, the
Tees, the Tay, the Severn, the Tweed, the Trent, the Medway, and most of
the rivers called Ouse, among many others. Some of these names have transparent Celtic origins, while others are opaque in Celtic and may have been
taken over by the Celts from speakers of still earlier languages. Indeed, it is
almost unusual to find a river name of English origin, although one such is
the Mersey, from an Old English name meaning ‘boundary river’: this river
formed the boundaries between the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of Mercia and
Northumbria, and later between the counties of Cheshire and Lancashire.
The creation of the new county of Merseyside in 1974 brought to an end
more than a thousand years during which the river formed an important
boundary.
We find much the same in the eastern United States, where most of the
rivers have names taken from the local indigenous languages. Here and
there we find a Hudson or a Delaware taken from a European language, but
mostly we find names like Connecticut, Potomac, Rappahannock, Allegheny,
Monongahela, Ohio, Susquehanna, Tennessee, and that most beautiful of
American river names, Shenandoah. These river names preserve the now
mostly vanished Iroquoian and Algonquian languages which were once
spoken from the Atlantic coast westward to the Mississippi and the Great
Lakes and beyond.
All over the globe, place names provide us with valuable information
about ancient languages. In the Pyrenees, we find place names of Basque
origin as far east as the valley of Arán, near Andorra; this territory has not
been Basque-speaking for well over a thousand years, but clearly it once was.
Even the valley name Arán itself appears to derive from Basque (h)aran
‘valley’, and so the local name Val d’Arán is literally ‘valley valley’ – a
common kind of outcome when names pass from one language into another.
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Why Do Languages Change?
At the same time, deep in the heart of the Basque-speaking region we find
a river named Deva, with a town of the same name at its mouth; this Celtic
river name, frequent in formerly Celtic-speaking areas all over Europe, and
representing a Celtic word for ‘goddess’, demonstrates that there were once
Celtic speakers in the Basque Country, although that must have been a very
long time ago indeed.
From Kirkwall in Orkney to Derby in the midlands of England and to
Wicklow in Ireland, the frequency of Scandinavian place names bears quiet
testimony to the former presence of Viking settlers in much of Scotland,
England and Ireland. (These names are Kirkju-vágr ‘church-bay’, Djúr-bý
‘deer-village’ and (probably) Víkinga-ló ‘Vikings’ meadow’ in Old Norse.)
We find Greek names in Turkey, Etruscan names in Italy, Arabic names in
Spain, Phoenician names in north Africa and Spain, Persian names in India,
and French names in England, all bearing evidence of languages once
present in these locations. An example of a French name in England is the
towering cliff-face of Beachy Head, not far from Brighton; this derives from
Old French Beau Chef ‘beautiful head(land)’, with the uncomprehending
addition of English head, producing another tautologous name.
We find a particularly fascinating case in Greece. In classical times, both
mainland Greece and the Greek island of Crete possessed a sizeable number of
place names ending either in -nthos or in -(s)sos. Examples: Amárynthos,
Erýmanthos, Zakýnthos, Kórinthos, Périnthos, Ólynthos, Dírphōssos, Ilisós,
Kēphis(s)os, Kerēssós, Parnassós, Pēdasos, Amnis(s)ós, Knōs(s)ós, Tylis(s)ós.
Some of these names, such as Kórinthos (English Corinth: source, via French,
for the word currant) and Knōssós (English Knossos), are familiar to anyone
who knows a little about ancient Greece.
When we come to analyse these, the first point to spring to mind is that
each of these endings recurs so frequently in place names that it simply must
have a single unified explanation, a single origin. Compare, for example, the
ending -burg(h), which occurs in so many town names in Britain. This too
must have a single origin, and it does – with just the odd exception – in Old
English burh ‘fortified place’.
Secondly, these two endings are definitely not Greek, nor even IndoEuropean. So, the names containing them must have entered Greek from
some other language in which these endings were commonplace. Linguistic
amateurs have excitedly suggested Egyptian or Semitic, but neither of these
contains suitable elements. The source must be another language, very likely
one which is long extinct and unknown.
The interpretation is obvious, and it has been accepted by linguists for
a long time. When Greek speakers entered what is now Greece, perhaps
around 2000 BC or a little earlier, they found the territory already occupied
by a people speaking a quite different language, one which is unknown to us.
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73
These people had already constructed a large number of place names. Some
of these names were simply retained by the Greeks – just as the English
speaking settlers in North America and Australia retained many place names
from the languages of the earlier inhabitants. In other words, the Greeks took
these names over from a substrate language.
Apart from names, there are also some ordinary Greek words exhibiting
these same endings. Again, these words are neither Greek nor Indo-European,
and they must have been borrowed. Most of these words denote
Mediterranean plants and animals which the early Greek-speakers would
probably not have known before they entered Greece: erébinthos ‘chickpea’,
ólynthos ‘wild fig’, términthos or terébinthos ‘terebinth’, hyákinthos ‘bluebell’, kypárissos ‘cypress’, kérasos ‘cornel cherry’, písos ‘pea’, bólinthos
‘European bison’, and so on. A few of these words have other meanings,
but all are words that might readily have been taken over by the Greeks from
the earlier inhabitants of Greece. The most famous of these words is the
celebrated Cretan word labýrinthos ‘labyrinth’. It appears that the Greeks
probably took their myth of the Minotaur and his labyrinth from the earlier
pre-Greek inhabitants of the region. It is useful to compare the adoption
by English-speakers of indigenous animal and plant names outside England
like skunk, woodchuck, kangaroo, wallaby, wombat, kiwi and squash.
So, thousands of years ago, before the Greeks arrived, Greece was inhabited
by an unknown people speaking an unknown language. Very frequent in
that language, whatever it was, were the two endings -nthos and -(s)sos, or
at least endings that were later taken into Greek in these forms. Speakers of
that language used many everyday words containing those endings, and
they constructed many place names involving the same endings. When the
speakers of what would become Greek finally arrived in Greece, they took
quite a few of these words and names into their own language. But then
the earlier language died out, probably because its speakers abandoned it in
favour of the now more prestigious Greek. Sadly, the speakers of this
extinct language never acquired writing, meaning that their language was
not recorded. Barring an amazing discovery one day, we will never know
anything about this lost language apart from the few fragments of it accidentally preserved for us by the Greeks. But we know it was there, once.
The fading of names
When a name is first conferred, it is normally full of meaning, and it is
regarded by the name-givers as eminently suitable for what it designates.
Once the name has been given, however, in most cases it rapidly begins to
lose its independent meaning and to be reduced to a mere label, an arbitrary
sequence of sounds attached to the place or thing bearing it. The existence of
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Why Do Languages Change?
the original meaning does not prevent speakers from altering the form of
the name in any way they fancy, either in line with regular changes in the
pronunciation of the language or in irregular and capricious ways. Before
many generations have passed, the original meaning of the name may become
obscure and difficult, recoverable only by specialists, and a few more centuries may render the origin of the name so opaque as to be beyond recovery.
The city name New York was coined less than four centuries ago, and its
origin is still transparent to anyone who cares to think about it: the American
city is named after the English city of York (via a dedication to James, Duke
of York, brother of Charles II and commander of the English navy at the
time of the transfer from Dutch hands), and the intended sense is ‘the new
city of York’. But, in practice, no one does think about this, and New York is
for most of us, most of the time, no more than an arbitrary sequence of
noises, on a par with Chicago, a name whose origin really is wholly opaque
to anyone but a specialist.
The Taj Mahal was built only in the seventeenth century, between about
1631 and 1648, but already its name is so obscure that even specialists are
not quite sure what the original sense was meant to be. The building was
erected by the Mogul emperor Shah Jehan as a tomb for his beloved wife
Mumtaz, and the name was conferred in Persian, the language of the Mogul
court. Mahal is straightforward: this is Persian for ‘abode’ or ‘palace’. But no
such word as taj exists in Persian or in any other language of the area. Most
specialists are agreed that the name Taj Mahal must represent an irregular
alteration of an earlier Mumtaz Mahal, but there is disagreement on the
significance of this name: some see it as meaning ‘the abode (resting place)
of Mumtaz’, while others note that Mumtaz’s full title seems to have been
Mumtaz Mahal ‘the exalted one of the palace’, and they prefer to see the
name of the tomb as deriving directly from this title. In less than four
centuries, the name has become obscure.
Very few of the place names conferred by the English-speaking settlers
of Britain are now intelligible without scholarly scrutiny, and quite a few are
no longer intelligible at all. The Lincolnshire town of Boston is recorded in
1130 as Botuluestan, showing that its original sense was the unexpected
‘Botwulf’s stone’ – that is, ‘stone (marking a boundary or a meeting place)
belonging to a man called Botwulf’. The settlers who carried this name to the
city in Massachusetts had no inkling of this origin, nor were they interested.
The famous English port city of Bristol, earlier Bristow, derives its name,
the scholars have determined, from Old English brycg-stow – that is, ‘assembly point by the bridge’. Changes in pronunciation have obscured the identity
of both of the Old English words, and the word stow ‘assembly point’ has
disappeared from the language anyway, so the name would still be unintelligible even if it were pronounced ‘Bridge-stow’ today.
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This fading into unintelligibility is generally the fate of names everywhere,
even without the assistance of a shift of language, like the replacement of
Celtic by English in most of Britain. All across Europe, names of rivers,
mountains, towns and even countries are obscure, opaque and often mysterious. River names like Rhine, Vistula, Elbe, Liffey and Danube are difficult
or impossible to unravel, though the last may perhaps be another of those
Iranian river names from dānu (scholars are not sure about this one, because
there are technical difficulties). The names of the Alps, the Pyrenees and
the Carpathians have origins that can only be guessed at. Such famous
cities as Paris, Rome, Berlin and Moscow bear names about whose remote
origins little or nothing is known. And names of whole countries, like Spain,
Italy, Latvia, Lithuania and Albania, are seemingly beyond interpretation.
Some of these names, we know, are derived from the names of peoples
who once lived in or near the areas in question, but this realisation is of
limited help. Knowing that Paris takes its name from the Parisii who used to
live there is scarcely more illuminating than knowing that Estonia takes its
name from the Estonians who live there now.
Names sink into obscurity fast. Even though Europe has been inhabited by
fully modern human beings for something like 35,000 years, it is unlikely that
many European place names are much more than about 3,000–4,000 years old.
Yet even so a very high number of these names are already too opaque to be
deciphered. This is pretty much what we find with place names in most parts of
the world.
But perhaps not everywhere. Australia has been inhabited by our species
for over 40,000 years, and perhaps for something like 50,000–60,000 years.
Accordingly, we might expect the Australian landscape to be littered with
thousands of opaque place names which are wholly unintelligible to even the
most knowledgeable tribal elders.
But that is not what we find. In great contrast to Europe, most indigenous
Australian place names have meanings which are largely or completely
transparent – that is, they still mean something in the local language.
Take for example the survey of place names conducted by the linguist Bob
Dixon in the area of Queensland occupied by the speakers of Yidiny. Out of
87 place names surveyed in the area, Dixon found that only one was unintelligible. This was Murubay, the name of a grassy mound. Uniquely in Dixon’s
list, this name means nothing at all in Yidiny and cannot be interpreted.
But the other 86 names were different. Of these, about half are identical to
ordinary Yidiny words. Examples include the location name Dyulugunu, identical to dyulugunu ‘black myrtle tree’, the name of a tree which grows in
abundance at this location, and Ngawuyu, the name of a rock, identical to
ngawuyu ‘salt-water turtle’, apparently so named because a mythical hero saw
such a turtle at this place. A number of others involve ordinary words with
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Why Do Languages Change?
suffixes. For example, the location name Dyirgardyi is literally ‘with grass’,
from dyirgar ‘grass’ and -dyi ‘with’, because that same mythical hero found
grass growing here. In most of the remaining cases, the name is based upon
an ordinary word with some kind of modification of the ending. For example,
the hillside Ngiyaman takes its name from ngiya ‘edge of mountain’, with an
unexplained addition, and the location name Garbara is merely an archaic
form of garba:r ‘mangrove tree’; the place name has failed to undergo the
otherwise regular change in pronunciation which has altered the form of the
ordinary word.
The Yidiny pattern appears to be typical of native Australia: place names
are usually transparent in formation, with meanings that every speaker can
easily recover. Why is Australia so different from Europe in this respect?
After all, we know that words have changed their pronunciations in Australian
languages about as fast as in European languages, and we also know that
Australian languages, because of taboo restrictions, replace their words
with completely different words much more frequently than do European
languages. So why have most native Australian place names, after tens of
thousands of years, not descended into unintelligibility, as has happened in
Europe in a vastly shorter time?
There is no simple answer to this, but it appears that native Australians
are far more interested than Europeans in retaining the meanings of place
names. As I explained above, once we confer a name, however suitable, it
promptly loses its independent meaning and is reduced to a mere label.
It appears that the same thing does not happen in native Australia. In
Australia, if the ordinary processes of language change threaten to make a
name opaque, the name must be updated in some way to maintain its intelligibility. Native Australians can tolerate a certain degree of obscurity in a
name, so long as the overall meaning of the name remains clear, but they will
not usually allow a name to descend into unintelligibility.
Suppose the same policy were adopted in the English-speaking world. Then
we would have to update the place names rather often, in order to keep their
meanings fresh and transparent.
For example, the original sense of Eborakon, the ancestral form of York,
is thought by some scholars to have been ‘yew-tree estate’. So, it appears, we
should replace the opaque name York by the transparent Yew-Tree Estate, and
the name of the American city should likewise be altered to New Yew-Tree
Estate. This decision would yield further fallout: the Queen’s son would be
the Duke of Yew-Tree Estate, and the consequences for the song New York,
New York hardly bear thinking about. We would also need to make a decision
about Yorkshire: though shire scarcely exists any longer in its earlier
sense of ‘administrative division’, the word still maintains at least a marginal
presence in the language, and the recent films of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings
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77
have made the word prominent again, so perhaps we can make do with a
cricket team called Yew-Tree-Estateshire. The disappearance of Old English
lifer ‘mud’ means that Liverpool must be updated to Muddypool. And, since
the obscure first element in Manchester appears to be a Celtic word *mamm‘breast’, apparently applied to a breast-shaped hill, we are in some danger
of winding up with a football team called Breast-Fort United, an outcome
which will please few fans of the Red Devils. Likewise, Chicago, which
derives from an Algonquian word shikaakwa, meaning both ‘skunk’ and
‘(smelly kind of) wild leek’, will apparently have to be updated to something
like ‘Skunk-Leek’ (my kind of town).
Finally, before we leave the Australians, there is one more aspect of native
Australian naming practices which is worthy of some attention. Australian
names show a high frequency of what are called incidental names, names
which record incidents that once occurred at the named locations. Above we
saw some examples of Yidiny place names derived from incidents in the life
of a mythical hero. In Europe, such incidental names are rare to non-existent,
but they are curiously frequent in the United States.
The name of Massacre Rocks, Idaho, commemorates the killing of some
settlers which took place there in 1862. The ferocious-sounding Hatchet Lake,
Arkansas, is in fact so named because a surveyor cut his knee on a hatchet there.
Kettle Creek, Colorado, and Kettle Creek, Oregon, are both named because
somebody lost a kettle at each place. Most absurdly of all, a town in California
received its name as follows: the settlers asked the local postmaster, who was
eating a bag of peanuts at the time, to suggest a name. The town is now called
Peanut. American place names seldom feature the deeds of mythical heroes,
but they appear to be a symphony to forerunners who were clumsy, careless,
absent-minded, violent, or just a little hungry.
Names and politics
Names can be changed for all sorts of reasons, but political reasons are
especially prominent and interesting. To take a simple case, it is hardly surprising that the German names of the cities Stettin and Danzig were officially
replaced by the Polish forms Szczecin and Gdańsk when these cities were
annexed by Poland in 1945. Nor is it surprising that the former British colonies
of Northern Rhodesia, Southern Rhodesia and The Gold Coast quickly underwent name changes to Zambia, Zimbabwe and Ghana upon independence.
The nationalist movements of our day have produced many such cases.
For example, with the end of Franco’s brutal dictatorship in Spain and the
establishment of democracy in the 1970s, speakers of the several minority
languages of Spain have been demanding and getting official status for their
own forms of place names. The Basque provinces formerly known by their
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Why Do Languages Change?
Spanish forms Vizcaya and Guipúzcoa are now officially known by their
Basque forms, Bizkaia and Gipuzkoa, and the Basque town of San Sebastián
is now Donostia. Likewise, the Catalan city of Lérida is now officially Lleida,
and similar changes have been carried out elsewhere in Spain.
Some especially vexing cases have arisen from the disintegration of
the former Soviet Union. Take the new republic of Ukraine. The long domination of Ukraine by Russia had the effect that Ukrainian names became
known to the rest of the world in their Russian forms. Now, of course, the
Ukrainians would prefer to see the world using the authentic Ukrainian
forms. To fall into line with this desire, however, we would have to replace
our familiar forms Kiev, Odessa and Chernobyl by the Ukrainian forms
Kiyiv, Odesa and Chornobil – and most of us just don’t want to do that. The
problem is that a name like Kiev is as well established in English as, say,
Rome and Naples, and we are hardly likely to replace these traditional forms
by their Italian equivalents, Roma and Napoli. (On the other hand, the traditional English forms Lyons, Marseilles and Tangiers have now been largely
supplanted by the more accurate versions Lyon, Marseille and Tangier.)
Very recently, the name of the world’s highest mountain, situated on the
frontier between Nepal and Tibet (currently ruled by China), has been producing a small political storm. Its Nepali name is Sagarmatha, while the Tibetan
name is Chomolungma (in Chinese, Qomolangma), both names reportedly
meaning something like ‘mother goddess of the world’. Both of these names
have their champions as the sole ‘true’ name for the mountain. But most of
the world knows the mountain as Mount Everest, the name conferred by the
British administrators of India in honour of Sir George Everest, the British
surveyor general of India. Interestingly, we all pronounce this wrong. Everest
apparently pronounced his name as if it were the word eve followed by rest.
Dealt with more peacefully is the case of that famous rock formation in the
middle of Australia, which happens to occupy a central place in indigenous
Australian culture. That rock was given the English name Ayers Rock in 1873,
after Sir Henry Ayers, then the prime minister of South Australia, but after
complaints from the Aboriginal inhabitants the official name is now the indigenous Uluru.
Bilingual societies can suffer from complicated problems of naming. An
outstanding example is Belgium, divided between speakers of Dutch and of
French. The Belgians have been obliged to draw up elaborate laws determining
which language(s) can or must be used in every region of the country. These
laws can make life interesting for a foreign visitor.
Suppose you are driving from the Dutch-speaking region to the Frenchspeaking region. When you start your trip, the road signs will be given only in
Dutch, even for places in the French-speaking region. If you cross the officially
bilingual region around the capital city, you will suddenly see the names of
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cities given in both languages. Then, in the French-speaking region, only
French names will be displayed, even for places in the Dutch-speaking region.
So, if you start in Antwerp, and head for Liège, you must know that you
should be following the signs for Luik. After a while, the signs will change to
Luik/Liège, and then they will change to Liège exclusively. But then, if you
want to return, you must watch for signs pointing to Anvers, since only when
you reach the bilingual area will you start to see signs for Antwerpen. The
locals are used to this, but outsiders can find it bewildering. For the country
which is home to so many European institutions, this practice doesn’t seem
very European, but so heated are the divisions in Belgium that each linguistic
group refuses to allow the use of the other group’s language on its territory.
In our politically sensitive era, quite a few names have recently been changed
for a reason which is easy to understand: the names were insulting. People
habitually give names to other people in ways which are largely haphazard. For
example, in English, the Welsh, the Basques, the Dutch, the Germans, the
Hungarians, the Albanians, the Greeks and the Finns – among many others –
are called by names that these peoples have never applied to themselves. These
idiosyncratic names are the result of a variety of historical accidents, and we
retain them, odd as they may be, because they are not perceived as insulting
in origin.
But other traditional English names really are insulting. For example, we
have historically called the people of northern Scandinavia the Lapps, but
this name is suspected of being offensive in origin, and today careful writers
prefer to use the name Sámi (or Saami), the name these people give themselves. Likewise, our familiar name Eskimo was originally an insult, reportedly meaning ‘eaters of raw meat’ in an indigenous language of Canada, and
today we avoid this name in favour of the self-designations Inuit (for the
eastern group) and Yupik (for the western group). There are many such cases.
As these examples suggest, people are passionate about names. That passion
can run to small details.
The Hawaiian language has an exceptionally small number of consonant
sounds: only eight. But one of those eight consonants is a sound which does
not occur as a separate consonant in European languages and for which the
Roman alphabet provides no letter: the glottal stop [ʔ]. For lack of a better
idea, in the romanised spelling system devised by Europeans for the Hawaiian
language, the glottal stop is spelled with an apostrophe. However, when
Hawaiian words and names are taken into English, the apostrophe is silently
dropped. For example, that celebrated Scrabble™ word aa (a kind of lava)
is properly written ’a’a in Hawaiian, with two vowels, and luau, the name of
a Hawaiian feast, is properly lu’au.
The problem is that the glottal stop occurs in the name of Hawaii itself: the
Hawaiian form is Hawai’i. The official American form of the state name is
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Hawaii, but native Hawaiians resent this, and they would like to see the official
form changed to Hawai’i. The last time I checked, the state authorities were
still using the apostrophe-free spelling; interestingly, the county of Hawai’i
(in other words, the largest island in the Hawaiian chain) is now using the native
spelling, however.
Organised naming: Maxwell and the love goddesses
In most cases, place names are assigned over a long period, with each name
reflecting some local circumstances at the time of its assignment. Nobody
is in charge of assigning names, and names just happen. The result may be
a crazy-quilt of different kinds of names. My home state of New York
provides a good example. There are native American names: Canandaigua,
Chatauqua, Irondequoit, Cheektowaga, Adirondack, Manhattan. There are
names imported from Britain and Ireland: New York, Albany, Rochester,
Norwich, Ulster, Kingston, Bath, Newark, even Brighton. There are names
formed in conventional ways from English elements: Watertown, Queens,
Oyster Bay, Ogdensburg, Orchard Park, Little Valley, Westons Mills. There
are Dutch names conferred by the early Dutch settlers: Schenectady, Hudson,
Yonkers, Brooklyn, Cohoes, Rensselaer. There is a scattering of names
taken from all over Europe: Barcelona, Dunkirk, Geneva, Waterloo,
Hamburg, Salamanca. We find the odd biblical name (Jericho) and the odd
French name bestowed by French explorers (Champlain). We have the usual
collection of formations in that favourite American element -ville: Portville,
Manorville, Terryville, Youngsville, Schuylerville, Niverville. There is a startling collection of names from classical antiquity: Rome, Syracuse, Ithaca,
Troy, Utica, Athens, Macedon, Corinth, Carthage, Ilion. There are odd
invented names: Fluvanna, Katonah, Mineola, Unadilla and the almost
inevitable Fredonia. There are also a few names of unknown origin, the
best-known being Buffalo.
The New York pattern is typical of the USA, and not so different from the
rest of the world. Once in a while, however, we encounter a different state
of affairs: a large set of names must be assigned to a region which is virtually
devoid of them, and this enterprise is undertaken by a committee which resolves
to proceed according to certain rules. The recent mapping of the previously
invisible sea-bed provides a possible example, but the best examples lie off
the earth altogether.
Human beings have always been able to see the face of the moon turned
towards the earth. But the other planets in our solar system long remained little
more than dots of light. In recent years, however, advances in telescopes, in
spacecraft, in radar, and in other kinds of technology have finally allowed
astronomers to explore the surfaces of Mercury, Venus and Mars, as well as
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81
the other side of the moon, the one we never see from earth. The result has
been a flurry of naming perhaps unparalleled in human history, as thousands
of suddenly visible features have been granted the dignity of names.
Astronomers, rather like biologists, have long operated with one big rule
of naming: the first scientist or group to discover an object or a feature is
entitled to name it. But there have to be guidelines as to what counts as an
acceptable name. For example, it has been the custom since ancient times to
name the planets after characters in Roman and Greek mythology: Mercury,
Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn … But when the Prussian-born English astronomer William Herschel discovered a new planet in 1781, he proposed
calling it George, in honour of his patron, King George III. Fortunately, this
eccentric suggestion was not accepted, and astronomers finally settled on
the more suitably mythological name Uranus. When the next two planets
were discovered, in 1846 and in 1930: the dignified labels Neptune and Pluto
were briskly conferred. There is some evidence that this classical tradition
may now be in decline, however. The ‘near-moon’ recently discovered
(almost) orbiting Earth was named Cruithne, after a Celtic moon goddess.
The guidelines used by astronomers are seldom stringent. The more prominent features of the near side of the moon were long ago given romantic Latin
names. A few examples are Mare Imbrium (the Sea of Rains), Mare Frigoris
(the Sea of Cold), Mare Serenitatis (the Sea of Serenity), Oceanus Procellarum
(the Ocean of Storms), Palus Nebularum (the Marsh of Mists), Sinus Roris (the
Bay of Dew), Lacus Somniorum (the Lake of Dreams), Mare Humorum (the Sea
of Moisture), the unnecessarily alarming Mare Crisium (the Sea of Crises), and
of course the famous Mare Tranquillitatis, the Sea of Tranquillity, where the
Apollo 11 spacecraft landed in July 1969.
These mostly watery names were conferred in hope, not in knowledge,
and we now know that the surface of the moon is so dry that it makes
the Sahara look soggy by comparison. The names conferred in recent years
exhibit a startling diversity of origins. Among the many hundreds of new names
are Plato, Seneca, Plutarch, Franklin, Atlas, Chevallier, Alexander, Tenerife,
Agassiz, Mt Blanc, Daguerre, Horrocks, Schroter, Fourier, Doppelmayer,
Walter, Leibniz, Milne, the slightly jarring Straightwall Mountains, and the
positively ridiculous Mare Smithii, ‘the Sea of Smith’. The result is not so
very different from New York State, except for the overwhelmingly frequent
use of the surnames of people to coin names of features.
In one case, however, the astronomers have put their collective scientific
foot down and insisted on accepting only names conforming to a rigid rule. This
has occurred in the case of the planet Venus.
Venus is something of a special case among the planets, because it is
wrapped constantly in thick white clouds: the surface is forever closed to us.
The only way to examine it is with radar, since radar waves can penetrate
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those clouds. But the first attempts, with earth-based radar, succeeded in
revealing hardly any features, and only three names were conferred.
Then it became possible to put radar-carrying spacecraft into orbit around
Venus, and to send high-quality radar pictures back to earth. This was done
first with the Pioneer Orbiter and the Venera missions, and more recently with
the technologically much superior Magellan probe. As a result, the surface of
Venus has now been mapped out in great detail, and dozens of new names
have been assigned to the previously invisible features of the surface.
As this mapping began, the astronomers made a decision: since Venus is
the only planet named after a female, all of the names conferred upon the
planet’s features must be female names. Unfortunately, this ruling was
made only after the earlier earth-based mapping had produced three named
features. Two highland areas were given the utterly bland names Alpha and
Beta. But the third feature was a towering mountain range, the highest on
the planet and higher than Mount Everest, and this was dubbed the Maxwell
Mountains, after the Scottish physicist James Clerk Maxwell, one of the
founders of the science of electromagnetism so useful for mapping the
planet. Having already been properly conferred, this name could not be
erased, and so it has remained: the only male name on a planet with otherwise
exclusively female names, such as two vast upland areas, or terrae, named
Ishtar and Aphrodite. These names, like that of the planet itself, represent
ancient goddesses of beauty, love and sex.
The smaller highland areas, or regiones, include the Alpha and Beta just
mentioned, as well as Asteria, Metis, Phoebe, Tellus, Eistla, Atla, Ovda, Tethus,
Themis and Thetis, most of these being the names of nymphs in classical
mythology. The lowland areas, or planitiae, include Atalanta, Lakshmi,
Lavinia, Leda, Niobe, Helen, Guinevere, Aino and Sedna – again a mythical
bunch, although a strikingly eclectic one.
The deep canyons, or chasmae, include Artemis, Devana, Diana, Heng-O,
Dali and Juno, also mythical. But the craters are named after real people,
among them Colette, Lise Meitner, Cleopatra, Mead, Pavlova, Sacajawea,
Golubkina and Sappho. Among the large rock formations, or rupes, are Ut
and Vesta. Finally, the mountains include Akna, Freyja, Hathor, Rhea,
Danu, Gula, Maat and Theia, as well as the isolated and doubtless embarrassed Maxwell. And there are oddities, such as the curious circular feature
called Eve.
I am not sure how the sober and all-business Swedish physicist Lise
Meitner would feel about being surrounded by a group of love goddesses
and nymphs not best known for having their clothes on. Perhaps the writers
Sappho and Colette are a little more at home, but we might wonder why
the erotic writer Anaïs Nin has not so far been granted a place in the topography of Venus. Also still denied a place is Marlene Dietrich, and the same
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83
goes for other modern goddesses like Rita Hayworth, Marilyn Monroe,
Greta Garbo or even Madonna, so far refused the honour already granted
on other heavenly bodies to countless obscure male scientists, to the creator
of Winnie-the-Pooh, and to that enigmatic Mr Smith.
Finally, we can only wonder at the emotions of that unbending Presbyterian,
James Clerk Maxwell, on finding his name apparently trapped for all time in
what looks like a largely heathen ladies’ powder room.
Conclusion
In some ways, onomastics acts as a microcosm for the study of language
change. We can observe how originally meaningful words and phrases gradually become commonplace and eventually meaningless. We are also lucky
because we can sometimes observe the act of creation of names – something
normally denied us for other kinds of words. Finally, onomastics reinforces
one of the abiding truths of the study of language change: without evidence,
all we are left with are guesses. With sufficient experience, these can become
informed guesses, but they are nonetheless to be treated cautiously. When no
or little experience is involved in this work, the results can be deeply misleading, however.
In the next chapter, we will be considering the history of the English
language, employing many of the skills we have acquired in the preceding
chapters.
5
Where does English come from?
English today and yesterday
Today English is the mother tongue of hundreds of millions of people. It is also
spoken as an everyday second language by many millions more, and it is by far
the language most learned as a foreign language. In almost every global domain,
English is the language of first choice for dealings between people. When an
Egyptian plane flies into Moscow airport, the pilot talks to the air-traffic
controllers in English. When a Swede negotiates a deal in Thailand, the
negotiations are conducted in English. When Brazilian biochemists publish
their latest research, they publish it in English. When a public statement is
issued by the Secretary General of the United Nations, or by the President of the
International Olympic Committee, or by the Secretary General of NATO, that
statement is almost always issued in the first instance in English.
English is the first language of the Internet, of popular music, of almost every
branch of science, of maritime navigation. Indeed it would be difficult to think
of a context where English is not used, even by non-native speakers. In the
nineteenth century, the language of diplomacy and of fine arts was French:
today it is English. In the nineteenth century, the language of such scientific and
scholarly fields as chemistry and linguistics was German: today it is English.
English has taken over the world on a scale never before seen. Greek, Latin,
Chinese, French and Arabic have all been immensely important languages at
certain times and in certain places, but not one of them has ever approached the
awesome dominance now achieved by English. English has become the first
truly global language.
How and why has this come about? In 1600, English was spoken nowhere but
the British Isles, and it was far from universal even there. It was the first
language in most of England, but in the southwestern county of Cornwall the
Celtic language Cornish was the mother tongue of many people. Almost the
whole of Wales was still solidly Welsh-speaking, and in fact Welsh speech
spilled across the border into adjoining areas of England. In Scotland, English
had established itself in the Lowlands, although in a highly distinctive and
divergent form, but the inhabitants of the Highlands and the Western Isles spoke
yet another Celtic language, Scottish Gaelic, while Shetlanders and the people
of Orkney were still speaking the Norn language introduced centuries earlier by
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85
Scandinavian settlers. Almost the whole of Ireland was Irish-speaking, save
only for often beleaguered groups of English speakers in Dublin, Wexford and
Waterford in particular. The people of the Isle of Man spoke another Celtic
language, Manx.
And that was it. No other English-speaking location existed. Sir Walter
Raleigh’s first attempts at establishing an English colony in North Carolina had
recently collapsed in disaster, and there was no English-speaking settlement anywhere in the Americas. There was as yet no English presence in Africa or Asia,
while Australia and New Zealand had not even been discovered by Europeans.
In Europe, France and Spain had for some time been the most powerful
countries. Italy was still politically fragmented, but the brilliance of Italian
civilisation allowed Italian to co-exist with French as one of the two premier
languages of high culture. The wealth and political clout of imperial Spain had
helped to give Spanish a role as a leading European language, but English was
insignificant. A few European traders and diplomats learned English for professional reasons, but, for most people of the day, learning English was a
priority the way learning Norwegian is a priority for English speakers today.
Indeed, it had not been many years since the first official attempts since AngloSaxon times at translating the Bible into English had led Henry VIII’s
Chancellor, Sir Thomas More, to snort derisively that the words of the Lord
were being rendered into ‘the language of plough-boys’.
We must recognise, therefore, that it was not the particular excellence of
English which made it the world language. Instead, colonialism and economic,
political and cultural power spread the language. In 1607, the first permanent
English-speaking settlement outside the British Isles was established at
Jamestown in Virginia. Before long, almost the entire east coast of North
America was occupied by English speakers, and there were also Englishspeaking settlements in the Caribbean. Although Britain would eventually
lose the thirteen colonies which formed the United States, it retained Canada
while keeping an eye out for imperial prospects elsewhere, including India,
Australia and New Zealand, many parts of Africa, Malaya and Singapore, Hong
Kong, the Pacific, a number of strategic possessions in the south Atlantic, the
Mediterranean and the Middle East.
The Industrial Revolution of the late eighteenth century onwards was largely
carried out in Britain, which became the world’s first industrial superpower. By
the end of the nineteenth century, the wealth and power of the British Empire
had helped to make English a language of some importance in Europe and in the
world. Even so, the language of European diplomacy was still French, and
French, in most people’s ears, still had more cachet than the upstart island
language.
Meanwhile, the young United States had been occupied in expanding across
the continent to the Pacific Ocean. By 1850, the territory had been successfully
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Why Do Languages Change?
annexed, at the expense of the Mexicans and of the Native Americans, and the
next fifty years were devoted to occupying and exploiting it. The SpanishAmerican War of 1898 made the USA a major imperial power (although it never
called itself such). In the Philippines and other islands which came under
American administration as a result of the war, English quickly replaced
Spanish as the language of government, education and prestige.
While the First World War ultimately ensured the downfall of the European
empires, including the British, the late but significant intervention of American
forces on the Allied side led to a growth in prestige and political power for the
United States which was magnified greatly by victory for the United Nations in
the Second World War, a victory which left the USA as the only combatant
whose industrial plant was left intact.
But it was not just the military and industrial muscle of the USA which led to
the success of English. As the world recovered from the devastation of the war
and grew more prosperous, American culture began to exert an almost hypnotic
effect. Hollywood movies, blue jeans, rock music, soap operas, Coca-Cola,
hamburgers, TV sitcoms, baseball caps – all these American staples caught the
imagination of young people everywhere, and the transformation that has been
dubbed ‘Coca-colonisation’ was underway. It was not so much British or
American gunboats and commerce that won the world: it was Elvis Presley,
trainers, The Godfather and Friends that made a knowledge of English indispensable for fashion-conscious youngsters everywhere.
This is quite a success story for something that started out as the not
especially significant language of an island off the west coast of Europe. But
how did English get to that island in the first place? How did it develop there?
The Indo-Europeans
The human species, Homo sapiens, has existed for perhaps 150,000 or 200,000
years; for a large part of this time humans have had language. But because
writing was not invented until comparatively recently and there was no way of
keeping records, we have little or no idea about what languages people spoke.
However, towards the end of the eighteenth century, European linguists began
to figure out how to recover some of our unrecorded linguistic past.
A little more than 6,000 years ago – just before 4000 BC – a smallish
community of people lived somewhere in eastern Europe or in western Asia
(probably the steppes of southern Ukraine and Russia): the Indo-Europeans,
speakers of Proto-Indo European, or PIE. PIE was never written down, but we
know a good deal about the language from its descendants, and also about the
culture of the people who spoke it.
Painstaking work by linguists over two centuries has given us an enormous
amount of information about this wholly unrecorded language. This information
Where does English come from?
87
does not result from speculation: instead, it derives from the application of
rigorous methods to the data available to us in the living and recorded languages
which, as we will see, are directly descended from PIE – including English.
From these linguistic conclusions, we can draw conclusions about IndoEuropean culture. For example, we can reconstruct a PIE word for ‘brideprice’, *wedmo-, and so it seems safe to conclude that a man who wanted to
marry was obliged to pay a bride-price to the family of his intended.
PIE was a grammatically complex language in comparison to Modern
English. It had three grammatical genders, and several different classes of
nouns and verbs requiring different sets of endings according to this function.
It had a very large amount of the meaningful alternation of the type we see in
English sing, sang, sung, and write, wrote, written, and also a considerable
number of the alternations we see in sing and song, or in gold and gild. In
pronunciation, PIE was fairly simple, with only a small number of consonants
and vowels, but the language did permit combinations which would look
unusual in most modern European languages, such as *pnkwtós ‘fifth’ (from
*penkwe ‘five’), *wnatks ‘leader, lord’ and *h3régs ‘ruler, king’. (The asterisks
here indicate that these words are nowhere recorded but have been reconstructed by linguists; kw is a kind of [k] sound pronounced with rounded lips;
and h3 – along with h1 and h2 – is a conventional symbol for consonants
pronounced towards the back of the mouth which we know existed but without
being able to say exactly how they were pronounced.)
We know that the speakers of PIE could count up to ten, because we can
reconstruct their words for the numerals from ‘one’ to ‘ten’. But it seems likely
that they could not count any higher. They did have at least one bigger counting
word, *kmtóm, which is the direct ancestor of the first part of English hundred,
but there is reason to believe that this word simply meant ‘lots’ in PIE. We can
still see this in a number of later IE languages, where the word for ‘hundred’ can
also stand for 120 and 144.
The Indo-Europeans had one generic term for ‘metal’, which we reconstruct
as *h2eyes-, using another of those phonetically obscure consonants, but it
seems likely that copper was the only metal they did anything with, while
iron and bronze were unknown. From this form derives Latin aes, which could
mean any base metal or alloy, but primarily, in early texts, copper, as well as
English ore.
They recognised at least two levels of social organisation: a smaller one
*dómh2os, roughly ‘household’, and a larger one *wik-, roughly ‘clan’. In
addition, they recognised a unit called the *génh1es-, or ‘family’, the group of
people related by blood and marriage within which genealogical descent was
reckoned. The first of these is the remote source of domestic, and the third is the
source of generation, both of these being taken by English from Latin (kin is the
native word derived from *génh1es-). It is much less obvious that the second is
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the source of economics, whose ancient sense was something like ‘household
management’.
The Indo-Europeans practised a polytheistic religion with a large number of
divinities each of whom had specific responsibilities assigned. Few of the IndoEuropean divine names can be reconstructed, as with *dyéus ph2tér, literally
‘sky father’, which is the direct ancestor of Ancient Greek Zeus (the first part
only) and of Latin Jupiter (the whole thing). The first element is also the
ancestor of the Tues in English Tuesday.
The Indo-Europeans practised pastoralism. They probably kept both cows
and pigs, but the animals on which they principally depended were sheep and
goats. We can reconstruct quite a few PIE words pertaining to these animals,
including *h2owis ‘sheep’, the remote ancestor of the native English word ewe,
and *bhugos ‘he-goat’, the ancestor of English buck, formerly a he-goat but now
usually a male deer.
They also practised agriculture, though agricultural terms are harder to
reconstruct with confidence. We have the words *yéwos and *ghrh1nóm, both
‘grain’ in general (the former is reflected in Modern English yeast; the latter has
corn as its native reflex; grain and granary are borrowings from French with the
same ultimate source). Several words for ‘barley’ have survived, but none for
‘wheat’, which was perhaps unknown to the Indo-Europeans. Reconstructible
words for ‘plough’, ‘harrow’, ‘sow’, ‘sickle’, ‘thresh’ and ‘grind’ confirm the
existence of cereal-based agriculture among the speakers of PIE, however.
These people also had horse-drawn chariots. We know this because we can
reconstruct a number of words pertaining to these artefacts, including *h1ékwos
‘horse’, *kwekwlóm ‘wheel’ and *h2aks- ‘axle’. This conclusion is important,
because archaeologists suggest that horse-drawn chariots were used by no one
before about 4000 BC; we can be confident, therefore, that PIE must still have
been spoken as a more-or-less unified language at this time.
The Indo-European dispersal
Around 6,000 years ago, the speakers of PIE began to spread out from the
smallish area they had previously occupied. Some moved westward, further into
Europe, while others went eastward, further into Asia. While they dispersed, of
course, the ordinary processes of linguistic change were continuing to operate.
Everybody’s speech was therefore diverging from the speech that was in use
when PIE was still a fairly homogeneous language occupying a small area, but
naturally the same changes did not occur everywhere. Every local speech
variety was undergoing its own individual changes, in grammar, in pronunciation, and in vocabulary. After several centuries, the now well-dispersed local
varieties were already very different from the unified PIE speech of the original
group, and also very different from one another. For a time, these local varieties
Where does English come from?
89
could still plausibly be regarded as no more than regional dialects of a single
language, but eventually the accumulated differences became so great that this
was no longer possible. PIE had split up into several entirely different daughter
languages.
Thanks to the accidents of history, we know quite a bit about some of these
diverging groups, while about others we know little or nothing.
Two large groups can be at least dimly discerned as early as perhaps 2000
BC. In Anatolia (modern Turkey), speakers of a branch of Indo-European (from
now on, IE) settled: the branch we call Anatolian. (In fact, one or two specialists
think that PIE actually originated in Anatolia, but this is a minority view.)
Several Anatolian languages are recorded in writing from the second millennium BC, the most important being Hittite, the language of a powerful ancient
empire.
Around the same time, speakers of another branch of IE moved through the
Balkans and down into the area now known as Greece. This branch was the
direct ancestor of Greek, though at this early date the language would still have
been very different from the Classical Greek of Plato or Herodotus.
It was probably around the same time that a third branch began what would be
a long journey to the east. This branch, known as Indo-Iranian, consists of two
main sub-branches, Indic and Iranian. We have written evidence that Indic had
reached modern Syria no later than 1400 BC, and probably much earlier. But the
speakers of Indic kept moving eastward, until they finally settled in northern
India, probably in the first millennium BC. For Iranian, we have less information, but we know that Iranian speakers occupied the steppes north and east of
the Black Sea for many centuries before eventually moving into the areas they
occupy today, chiefly Iran and Afghanistan and some neighbouring regions.
Other IE speakers settled in the Balkans, but our information here is so sparse
that we have little more than a few language names to work with, like Illyrian,
Dacian, Macedonian and Thracian. By about 1000 BC, the Italic group had
occupied a large part of Italy. And at some stage the speakers of the Baltic group
moved into the area along the coast of the Baltic Sea, the speakers of Armenian and
of Albanian arrived in their historical homelands (the Armenians probably via
southeast Europe and Anatolia), the speakers of the Tocharian group settled around
oases in what is now western China, and the speakers of the Slavonic branch found
themselves occupying a gradually expanding region of eastern Europe.
There may well have been other groups of Indo-Europeans in various parts of
Europe, but information is lacking. There is a limited amount of evidence in
place names for what scholars term Old European. But much evidence has been
obscured by the fact that in the last millennium BC another branch of IE began
to expand almost explosively: Celtic.
Starting, it is generally agreed, from a homeland in east-central Europe, almost
certainly around 1200 BC, Celtic speech began spreading with astonishing speed
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Why Do Languages Change?
and effectiveness across Europe. Within only a few centuries, Celtic languages
were established from Ireland and Britain in the west across France, the Low
Countries, much of Spain, Switzerland, northern Italy, southern Germany,
Austria, Bohemia, much of the Balkans, and even part of Anatolia (the
Galatians, to whom St Paul wrote an epistle in the first century AD, were Celts,
settled around modern Ankara). It appears that Celtic speakers were the first
people in Europe to master the use of iron, and it may simply be that their iron
tools and iron weapons gave them an unbeatable advantage.
But Celtic domination of Europe would prove to be short-lived, for a couple
of reasons. One of those reasons was taking shape in the north, where we must
now turn our attention.
Proto-Germanic
One of the latest branches of IE to emerge clearly from obscurity is the one we
are most interested in here. In the first millennium BC, a group of IE speakers
were settled in southern Scandinavia, Jutland and the north German plain. For
some reason, the changes which their speech variety had undergone had been
unusually dramatic – in pronunciation, in grammar and in vocabulary. We call
their branch of the family the Germanic branch, and by about 500 BC these
people were speaking a language which was greatly changed from its PIE
ancestor: Proto-Germanic.
There are no records of Proto-Germanic, because its speakers had no writing.
But we know a great deal about it from its daughter languages.
Proto-Germanic had lost a great deal of the grammatical complexity inherited
from PIE. But it was grammatically complicated in comparison with Modern
English. For example, it retained the three grammatical genders of PIE, and it
still had many grammatical endings, with a considerable number of classes of
words requiring different sets of endings. It had also managed to acquire some
new grammatical constructions which had not been present in the ancestral
language. For example, Proto-Germanic had greatly simplified the PIE verbal
system, but in the process it had invented a new way of constructing past-tense
forms of verbs, one not previously found anywhere in the IE languages. This
new past tense was made by suffixing a /d/ or a /t/ sound to the verb. English still
has this system today, as in love/loved and walk/walked.
Proto-Germanic had also acquired a great deal of vocabulary not found in
other IE subfamilies. Some of these words were perhaps built on inherited IE
stems, but others were very likely taken from some unknown and now longdead language or languages which were already spoken where the early
Germanic peoples subsequently settled. Among the new words were the ancestors of English rain, finger, hand, blood and boar ‘male pig’, all of which are
found in every Germanic language, but nowhere else.
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Table 5.1 Some Grimm’s Law changes
(a) PIE (and Latin) /p t k/ > Germanic /f θ h/
(/θ/ is the sound of English th in think)
Latin
English
pater
piscis
pedtres
tenuis
turdus
cornu
cordcollis
father
fish
foot
three
thin
thrush
horn
heart
hill
(b) PIE (and Latin) /b d g/ > Germanic /p t k/
(but PIE /b/ was extremely rare)
decem
dentduo
granum
genu
gelidus
ten
tooth
two
corn
knee (whose /k/ used to be pronounced)
cold
The pronunciation of Proto-Germanic had undergone a series of startling but
highly regular changes. One of the most famous of these is the First Germanic
Consonant Shift, otherwise known as Grimm’s Law, named after Jacob Grimm,
the pioneer historical linguist and, along with his brother Wilhelm, collector of
folklore and stories; some Grimm’s Law changes are presented in Table 5.1.
After around 500 BC, the speakers of Proto-Germanic began spreading into a
larger area, and their speech slowly split up into a number of distinct daughter
languages, one of which was destined to become English. Linguistically, the
languages descended from Proto-Germanic are usually classified into three
groups. The northern group stayed in Scandinavia. The eastern group moved
first into Poland but then continued moving restlessly across southwest Russia,
Ukraine, the Balkans, Italy, France, Spain and, for some, north Africa. The
western group established itself in north-central and northwestern Europe.
Eventually the Greeks and more especially the Romans became aware of these
Germanic neighbours to the north. After one disastrous attempt at incorporating a
large stretch of Germanic territory into their empire, the Romans settled in the first
century AD for placing their northern frontier along the rivers Rhine and Danube,
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Why Do Languages Change?
with the Germanic tribes on the other side and outside direct Roman control. This
state of affairs remained relatively stable for several centuries.
The period of stability was ended by invasion. The Huns, a group of nomadic
peoples originating in central Asia, began moving into Europe from the east and
exerting pressure on the settled Germanic speakers. The Germanic speakers
reacted to the threat by pressing in turn against the Roman Empire. Avoiding the
Roman garrisons, Germanic war parties slipped across the frontier into the
empire and began raiding the Roman farms and cities; more organised raids
and invasions followed. In 476, the last Western Roman Emperor abdicated.
Any centralised power remaining in Italy was seized by a succession of
Germanic strongmen. Although a considerable number of Germanic speakers
settled in the Western Empire during this period, their descendants eventually
switched over to the language of the majority which, with the exception of north
Africa (where the Vandals settled), was a form of Latin. A few Germanic words
survived in some of these languages, however, such as French bleu ‘blue’,
Italian albergo ‘inn’ and Spanish blanco ‘white’.
On the European continent, Germanic dialects brought by the immigrants were
only successful in surviving (and ‘defeating’ Latin) for the first 100km or so over
the Rhine or Danube. Thus the previously Latin- (or Celtic-)speaking regions
of northern Belgium, the southern Netherlands, the German Rhineland,
Luxembourg, Lorraine and Alsace in France, German-speaking Switzerland,
southern Germany and Austria are now Germanic in language (although some
of the local dialects demonstrate considerable influence from Romance languages). Small groups of Germanic speakers survive in northern Italy today,
even though their contact with the Germanic north has been very limited. Most
impressive of all in terms of survival was Crimean Gothic: in the early seventeenth
century the Spanish ambassador to the Khanate of the Golden Horde (a Tatar
group based in the Crimea), who happened to be a native Dutch speaker, was
shocked to hear some locals speaking a language whose words he recognised as
similar to his own. These were, we think, descendants of the Goths who stayed in
the Crimea rather than entering the Roman Empire in the fourth and fifth centuries.
But despite these small-scale survivals, it has to be recognised that the
linguistic effects of the Germanic ‘take-over’ of the Western Roman Empire
were not great.
Germanic varieties in Britain
There is one exception to this tendency, however – the Roman province of
Britannia – essentially modern England and Wales. Left to defend itself around
410, Britannia entered what is probably the only true ‘dark age’ of the Dark
Ages. We know very little about what happened in what was to be England for
most of the fifth and sixth centuries. By the time Britannia was reconnected with
Where does English come from?
93
the post-Roman world around 600, the south and east of the former province
was dominated by Germanic – English – speakers. It should be stressed,
however, that, with the exception of a few slaves and mercenaries, Germanic
varieties had been previously unknown in Britannia, where Latin was the
dominant language, but rural people would have mainly spoken British, the
ancestor of Modern Welsh, Cornish and Breton. The ancestor of English came
from elsewhere.
During the period of Roman power in Britain, the ancestor of English at this
time was a collection of local Germanic dialects spoken along the North Sea
coast of the continent, in parts of what are now the Netherlands, Germany and
Denmark. This collection of dialects we call North Sea Germanic.
The speakers of North Sea Germanic made little use of writing, and we have
no written texts of any length in their language. But the Germanic speakers did
have the runic futhark (named for the first six letters), an alphabet whose forms
derive largely from Roman models. What little writing we have from this time
amounts to brief inscriptions on swords and stone, normally commemorating
someone or expressing ownership.
Living along the North Sea, these people were less disturbed than their
cousins by the Hunnish invasions. But in the fourth century AD, the removal
of Roman troops from Britannia left a power vacuum in an island whose riches,
good soils and temperate climate the Germanic peoples across the North Sea
obviously coveted.
Exactly what happened next is obscure. According to one story, the suddenly
independent British, who had not had to defend themselves for centuries, now
found themselves under attack by the Irish and other neighbours. They appealed
to the Germanic speakers for help, something the Roman authorities themselves
had earlier done. In any event the Germanic speakers certainly began moving
into Britain in some numbers. Within a couple of generations, there were so
many Germanic speakers in Britain that their Germanic speech had entirely
displaced the earlier Celtic speech from large tracts of Britain.
The Germanic tribes that provided most of the new settlers were the Angles
(from Schleswig-Holstein in northern Germany), the Saxons (from the area
around the mouths of the Weser and the Elbe in Germany), the Jutes (from
Jutland in Denmark) and perhaps also the Frisians (living in the islands off the
North Sea coasts of the Netherlands and Germany). Since the first two groups
were the largest, the settlers came to be known collectively as the Anglo-Saxons
by Latin writers. The southern part of Britain acquired the new name Angleland, or England, and the intrusive Germanic speech of the settlers was dubbed
Anglish, or English. English therefore originated as the local Germanic dialects
of those dwellers along the North Sea who happened to cross over to Britain.
The several Germanic tribes occupied different parts of Britannia. The Jutes
(and, perhaps, the Frisians) settled in the southeastern corner, modern Kent and
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Why Do Languages Change?
on the Isle of Wight. The Saxons established themselves along all the rest of the
south coast, and also on the north side of the Thames estuary. The rest of
England, the midlands and the north (including some of southeast Scotland),
was settled by the Angles.
Where the Saxons settled, some transparent local names were conferred, and
these names have endured: the territory of the East Saxons (Essex), of the
Middle Saxons (Middlesex), of the South Saxons (Sussex), and of the West
Saxons (Wessex). There are still counties of England named Essex and Sussex
today, and Middlesex survived as a county until local government reforms in the
late 1960s. On the other hand, Wessex had dropped out of use until it was partly
revived by the writer Thomas Hardy and again by Queen Elizabeth II when she
made one of her sons Earl of Wessex.
By the eighth century, the Anglo-Saxons were beginning to write their
English language quite regularly. For this purpose, they largely abandoned the
runic futhark, using instead a version of the Roman alphabet, supplemented
with a few runic letters and other special characters to represent English sounds
for which the Roman alphabet provided no letters. This early form of English,
known as Old English, was very different from the modern language. It was still
a very typical Germanic language, with several different classes of words
requiring different sets of endings. Here is a sample:
Her…Ælfred cyning…gefeaht wið ealne here, and hine geflymde, and him æfter rad oð
þet geweorc, and þær sæt XIIII niht, and þa sealde se here him gislas and myccle aðas, þet
hi of his rice woldon, and him eac geheton þet heora cyng fulwihte onfon wolde, and hi
þæt gelaston…
Unless a Modern English speaker has studied Old English, this would seem like
a foreign language. Here is a word-for-word gloss:
Here…Alfred king…fought against whole army, and it put-to-flight, and it after rode to
the fortress, and there camped fourteen nights, and then gave the army him hostages and
great oaths, that they from his kingdom would [go], and him also promised that their king
baptism receive would, and they that did…
The structure of the language still being obscure to Modern English speakers, a
full Modern English translation is necessary:
Here [in this year] King Alfred fought against the whole army, and put it to flight, and
rode after it to the fortress, and there he camped for fourteen nights. And then the army
gave him hostages and great oaths that they would depart from his kingdom, and they
also promised that their king would receive baptism. And they did these things.
The first passage is English, but so much has happened to the language in the last
1,100 years that we would be pushed to recognise it as such. Much has changed
since then – in pronunciation, structure and vocabulary. In the following sections
we will be concentrating mainly on this final category, primarily because the results
Where does English come from?
95
are normally more clear-cut. If anything, however, structural changes to English
have been more significant than changes in vocabulary over the last 1,000 years.
The Scandinavian contribution
From the late eighth century on, the prosperity and cohesion of the English
kingdoms was jeopardised by contact on English soil with speakers of North
Germanic varieties, whom we conventionally term the Vikings. Some of these
Scandinavians were indeed the pirates and brigands of popular legend. Most,
however, were farmers and traders whose lives were not at all different from
those of the indigenous English. Although the effect of these migrations was felt
throughout England, it was the north of the country, especially the land south of
the River Tees and north of the River Humber, which was affected for longest.
Former political entities – most notably the kingdom of Northumbria – were
discarded in favour of a new kingdom of York, a major ‘player’ in the Viking
world, whose þriðingar (Old Norse for ‘thirds’) are still visible in the three
Ridings of Yorkshire. Scandinavian dialects probably continued to be spoken in
isolated parts of the north until the twelfth century.
In the northern and eastern midlands of England, lying north and east of a line
running from the River Dee at Chester to the River Thames at Westminster,
Scandinavian rule was more short-lived, but considerable numbers of Norsespeaking settlers, we believe, moved there. This settlement was probably at its
strongest in the north of the region, around boroughs such as Derby, Leicester
and in Lincolnshire. This area, along with the north, became known as the
Danelaw, due to a treaty of 878 which defined where the writ of English and
Danish law would run in England. This somewhat separate status continued to
be recognised linguistically until the local government reforms of 1975. In
southern England, for instance, counties were divided into hundreds, based
originally upon the number of able-bodied men who could be called up to form
a mass defence force. In the Danelaw, the same unit was called a wapentake, the
Viking Norse word for the stash of arms kept for these events.
To the west and south of this line, Scandinavian rule was temporary. Indeed, it
was from the kingdom of Wessex, previously something of a backwater, that
resistance turned to reconquest, in the first instance in the person of King Alfred,
called the Great (reigned 871–99). Simplifying somewhat, Wessex became
‘England’ and, indeed, the written dialect of its royal chancery, late West
Saxon, became the first standardised form of English.
Inevitably, these differences in settlement history had linguistic repercussions. Northern English dialects have many more Scandinavian words than do
midlands dialects (including the London dialect that is the source of present-day
Standard English). Southern dialects, where they still exist, have even less
Norse influence exerted upon them.
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Why Do Languages Change?
The North Germanic dialects brought to England were obviously related to
English. There is a long-standing debate among historical linguists over
whether the two were mutually intelligible. My own feeling is that it depends
on what is meant by intelligibility. It is very likely that Scandinavians and native
English would have had considerable problems understanding each other, but
would still recognise the many words they had in common. Over time, people in
these situations make accommodations to each other – they avoid words they
know the other people don’t know but emphasise common vocabulary, use
simplified grammatical structures, and so on. Many of the structural developments through which English has passed may be attributed to these contacts in
northern England.
One result of this close contact was that hundreds of Old Norse words and
forms found their way into English. Some of those Scandinavian words have
remained confined to the English of the north of England and, often, of southern
Scotland, such as lug ‘ear’, bairn ‘child’ and kirk ‘church’. But many others
spread more widely, until they finally became universal in English.
For example, the native English word for ‘take’ was niman, which would
have become nim if it had survived. But it didn’t, except in the word nimble: Old
Norse taka prevailed, leading to Modern English take. Similarly, Old English
giefan ‘give’ became Middle English yive (just as Old English geolu became
yellow), but the Old Norse form give eventually drove the native version out of
the language.
In very early Old English, the consonant sequence /sk/ changed into the
single sound /∫/ we spell <sh> today. So, for example, Old English fisc had once
been pronounced /fisk/ but by the time of King Alfred it was pronounced in a
similar manner to the modern pronunciation. As a result of this change, no
native English word ever contains the sequence /sk/ – with a couple of exceptions like ask and tusk, which have complicated histories. But Old Norse
retained /sk/: most everyday words in English beginning with this sequence
come from Old Norse, including sky, skin, skid, scales (for weighing), skip,
skittish, scant, skittle, skulk, skull, scare, scathe, scoff, scold, scorch, score,
scrap, scream and scrape. Interestingly, native English shirt and Scandinavian
skirt are the same word in origin. We can assume, I think, that the word meant
‘large garment worn close to the skin’; over time – and perhaps through
developments in fashion (and greater affluence) – the English form came to
be associated with a garment covering the torso, while the Norse word now
refers to a garment covering the upper legs.
An interesting case is that of window. The Old English words for this object
were eagthyrl ‘eye-hole’ and eagduru ‘eye-door’. But these were driven out of
the language by Old Norse vindauga, literally ‘wind-eye’. Later, Old French
fenester became a competitor, and this was used side by side with window until
the mid 1500s, after which the Scandinavian word triumphed. Oddly enough, in
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Table 5.2 Old Norse words in English
Nouns
Adjectives
Verbs
husband
law
fellow
outlaw
knife
root
anger
bark (of a tree)
wing
awe
band
bank
brink
bull
crook
girth
haven
keel
loft
mire
race
slaughter
stack
steak
big
awkward
flat
happy
ill
loose
wrong
low
meek
odd
rotten
rugged
same
tight
ugly
hit
die
get
raise
cut
call
crave
droop
drown
gape
gasp
glitter
guess
kindle
lift
ransack
thrive
thrust
want
the modern Scandinavian languages, while Danish and Norwegian use a
descendant of the Old Norse form, Swedish uses a form descended from Old
French, probably via German.
Also from Old Norse is leg. The Old English word was sceanca, which has
become our word shank, remembered now largely in the nickname of Edward I of
England, called Langshanks because of his long legs. But shank has now become
specialised to denoting the lower part of the leg and to certain metaphorical uses,
and the Old Norse word has taken over as the ordinary anatomical term.
Other words of Old Norse origin are listed in Table 5.2.
In some cases, as with give, the Old Norse word replaced a related English
word. We have Old Norse sister in place of native suster (or swoster), weak in
place of woak, birth in place of birde and loan in place of lean.
There were more complicated developments. Old English dream meant ‘joy’,
but the word changed its meaning under the influence of Old Norse draumr,
which meant ‘dream’. Similarly, Old English gift meant ‘bride-price’, but it
acquired the meaning of Old Norse gipt ‘gift’ – and it also acquired the initial
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Why Do Languages Change?
consonant of the Scandinavian word, since the native form should have developed into yift.
The contact with Norse went well beyond the borrowing of random words. The
Old English third-person pronouns were he ‘he’, heo ‘she’, hit ‘it’ and hi ‘they’.
But it appears that plural hi became rather uncomfortably similar in sound to the
singular forms, because English speakers adopted the Scandinavian pronoun they,
which eventually more or less displaced the native form. Old English hi had a
dative form hem, and this inflected form still survives in Modern English as the
form we write ’em, as in Give ’em my regards. Indeed, some scholars have
suggested that central elements of the structure of English – possibly wordorder patterns and the presence of a discrete definite article – are the result, at
least in part, of the influence of Norse.
What are we to make of the Scandinavian influence on English? Although
there are only a few hundred Norse words in Standard English, they are
generally homely and used on a day-to-day basis. In fact, it would be very
difficult to say more than one or two sentences without using a Norse borrowing. In the areas where the main contact between English and Norse speakers
took place – northern England – many more words were borrowed. But the
nature of the contact remains the same: essentially between equals intimately
interacting in a domestic setting. The structural changes we touched on briefly
would support this view – lengthy and intense contact would be necessary for
these outcomes.
The next major external influence upon English was of a very different kind.
Norman French
In 1066, Duke William of Normandy led an army across the English Channel
into England, defeating the defending English army at Hastings, and assumed
the throne of England. Until 1400, when Henry IV usurped the throne, all the
kings of England from the Conquest on were born outside the kingdom;
normally in France. While many of them spoke English, French was their
mother tongue. For the new aristocracy, on the other hand, English became
within three or four generations the language of everyday communication in
most families. Until the fourteenth century, however, French, and French alone,
had prestige. Indeed, a number of the most prominent examples of early French
literature, such as the Song of Roland, were actually composed in England. As a
result, the blossoming English literary tradition was largely forgotten, as almost
all writing was carried out in French or Latin.
Old English was most certainly not an undeveloped vernacular, lacking in the
vocabulary required for a sophisticated and complex society. In fact, Old
English had developed quite a large vocabulary of abstract and technical
terms, using the ordinary Germanic word-forming processes of compounding,
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99
Table 5.3 Some Old English vocabulary
lustfullic
with-sprecan
to-cuman
god-spellere
boc-cræftig
tungol-witega
heah-fæder
leornung-cniht
ingethanc
oferlufu
hat-heort
ath-bryce
emn-niht
treowyrhta
cypmann
‘pleasure-full’
‘against-speak’
‘to-come’
‘good-message-er’
‘book-crafty’
‘star-knower’
‘high-father’
‘learning-boy’
‘in-thought’
‘over-love’
‘hot-hearted’
‘oath-breaking’
‘even-night’
‘wood-wright’
‘purchase-man’
joyful
contradict
arrive
evangelist
learned, erudite
astrologer
patriarch
disciple, apprentice
conscience
adulation
passionate
perjury
equinox
carpenter
merchant
prefixation and suffixation. Table 5.3 presents just a small sample of that rich
Old English vocabulary. The first column gives the Old English form; the
second column is a literal piece-by-piece translation; and the third column is
its Modern English equivalent.
But these words are unfamiliar to us. After the Conquest, French became the
language of prestige and status in England, while English enjoyed little standing. A knowledge of English was useful only in dealing with the common
people, but advancement required French.
For English speakers with ambition, French words came to seem far more
elegant and graceful than their crude English equivalents. As a result, upwardly
mobile English men and women began to pepper their English speech with French
words, the same French words which were in constant use by the Norman overlords. It is understandable that native English here and að-bryce should have been
displaced by French army and perjury, since the French words were the only ones
in use in the army and in the law courts. But English speakers went much further.
For instance, they abandoned to-cuman for French arrive, leornung-cniht for
apprentice, ingethanc for conscience, hat-heort for passionate and treowyrhta
for carpenter. Moreover, as often happens when speakers move from one language to another, as Norman French ceased to be anyone’s native language in
England in the course of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, originally French
speakers couldn’t always ‘find’ the right English word and used the French
equivalent instead. Because most of these final French speakers were politically
or economically powerful, their language, even when technically ‘wrong’, was
inevitably influential. After three centuries practically the entire native English
abstract and technical vocabulary had been obliterated in favour of words taken
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Why Do Languages Change?
from Norman French or from Latin. It is estimated that between 60 and 80 per cent
of the native English vocabulary disappeared during this bloodletting.
The Norman flood brought us picture, question, treasure, mercy, suspense,
reception, immediate, pure, crime, subtle, exempt, suffice, mirror, music, defend,
control, journal, multiply, journey, region, country, office and countless others.
Practically all of English words beginning with /v/ are of Norman French
origin: virtue, vanity, vowel, virgin, vassal, vault, vary, value, vacant, vanquish,
vermin and even very.
Native English words never contain the digraph <oi>, and almost all words
containing it come from Norman French: oil, coin, boil, join, point, poison, soil,
cloy, toil, loyal, royal, joy, poise, foil, destroy, alloy, ointment and others.
Norman French contributed practically the entire traditional vocabulary of
linguistics: language, sentence, question, noun, verb, adjective, pronoun, tense,
case, participle, infinitive, subject, object and many more.
In fact, even such everyday Old English words as andwlita, ea, weald and
berg disappeared from the language, replaced by their French equivalents face,
river, forest and mountain. Old English dal was reduced to a regionalism, dale,
and the normal word became valley.
But despite this overwhelming influx of French words, the backbone of
English vocabulary has remained resolutely Germanic. Personal pronouns,
grammatical words, number names, most body-part names, most kinship
terms, names of basic materials, most names of natural phenomena and of
geographical features, everyday verbs and adjectives – all are native English.
They include the following words: me, you, and, the, with, to, in, not, two,
seven, head, heart, arm, foot, man, woman, child, father, mother, daughter,
stone, wood, iron, gold, sun, moon, star, wind, rain, snow, tree, road, path,
stream, ford, bridge, come, go, think, believe, speak, wonder, live, laugh, stink,
red, black, old, young, new, little and short.
In spite of the vast – indeed, overwhelming – effect of Norman French on
English vocabulary, English is still undeniably a Germanic language. English
sentences may contain French and Latin words, but those sentences are put
together in native English. Moreover, unlike the Norse influence just discussed,
the French influence on English is largely concentrated in high prestige and
abstract semantic fields. French words are much less well represented in the
everyday fields where Norse is strong. Nevertheless, even if we didn’t know the
history behind the Norman Conquest and its aftermath, we would still be able to
see this difference.
The resurgence of English
By the fifteenth century, English had become the most prestigious language variety
used within England, with the exception of Latin. Poets like Chaucer, Gower and
Where does English come from?
101
Langland, active in the second half of the fourteenth century, had helped establish
this primacy; the fact that Gower and Chaucer – by far the most influential of this
grouping – came from the southeast of England and wrote in dialects from that area
could only help to increase a prestige which was already considerable because of
the presence of the royal court and administration at Westminster.
In the early 1400s, young men who had been educated first in English rather
than French began to take their places within the royal administration. By
1420–30, these men were now in positions of considerable authority. In using
a written English derived from the practices of a limited number of London
schools, a new, highly influential, ‘house style’ began to spread in the administration. This house style – dubbed Chancery Standard after the Royal
Chancery by scholars – was quickly exported outside government. People
wishing favours would naturally write in a way intended to be ingratiating to
the centre; the fact that the new style was inevitably seen as the ‘voice of the
king’ could not have hindered its spread. By 1500, the Chancery Standard had
become the primary, and soon after the only, acceptable form of written English.
In the course of the fifteenth century, a new technology – possibly at least
partly inspired by prior Chinese innovations – which allowed the mass production of the same version of the same text began to spread in Europe: movabletype printing. This technology had profound effects upon all European
languages: as printing spread, the varieties of a given language which each printer
chose came to be seen as having a particular authority within that community.
Since print shops tended to congregate in centres of economic and political
power – such as royal capitals – where the local language variety was already
prestigious, (near) uniformity and prestige often worked hand in hand.
In the case of English, printing was first introduced in the 1480s by William
Caxton. Some histories of the English language tend to exaggerate Caxton’s
importance to its development; largely, I think, because he is the first writer who
was able to broadcast his work in considerable quantity with a relatively small
amount of effort in comparison with the laborious copying by hand which
preceded it. It was Caxton’s ability to familiarise and popularise the already
existing Chancery Standard which guaranteed its position as the ancestor of
modern Standard English. It is certainly true that Caxton’s work, although over
500 years old now, is much easier for a contemporary English speaker to read
than that of Langland, writing essentially in a dialect deriving from the southwest midlands of England only some hundred years before that.
But this newly prestigious English was not considered by many users to be
entirely appropriate to the domains in which it was intended to be used. After
centuries of being subordinate to French and Latin, it was difficult to see English
as being their equal. This was particularly the case with Latin, which was central
to the experience of literacy in western Europe at the time and was also –
through the Vulgate translation of the Bible – seen as the language of God.
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At the same time, the English monarchy came very close to becoming the
rulers of France. Now, however, there was no organic connection with a
particular region of that country; there was no Normandy with which the rulers
of England shared a common dialect. Indeed, the English power base throughout these years was in southwestern France, where the locals spoke a Romance
variety which had more in common with Catalan or Italian than with the French
of Paris.
Despite the considerable enmity that existed between England and France
during this period (and, in one form or another, festered until the nineteenth
century), French remained an influence of some importance upon the English
language. Now, however, it was the prestigious speech of Paris which became
the primary source of new vocabulary. Indeed, so prestigious was this new
source that words which had already been borrowed from Norman French were
reborrowed; we can trace these separate origins through the divergent sound
patterns of the two dialects. Thus English has both Norman French warranty
and Parisian French guarantee, for instance. While the difference in meaning
between these two words is technical, that is not the case with cattle (Norman
French) and chattel (Parisian French). Both originally meant ‘possession’; the
former has become increasingly specialised in relation to bovine mammals
(although elements of its original meaning remain). This kind of distinguishing
process is, of course, quite natural: there are very few occasions where a
language actually needs two words which mean exactly the same thing. This
process has continued. Cavalier, originally merely a Norman word for a horseman, has been joined in English by Parisian chevalier. On this occasion,
however, the /∫/ in the latter tells us that this was a borrowing from the
seventeenth or eighteenth centuries, rather than earlier, since it was during
this period that Parisian <ch> ceased to be pronounced with the same sound
as found in English church.
There had always been borrowings from Latin into English. Latin was the
language of the Church, of learning and of high prestige. The meanings
associated with grammar discussed in Chapter 2 demonstrate this importance:
possession of Latin had magical connections for many people. But the level of
borrowing from Latin which occurred in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries
was unprecedented.
Not all of the Latin words used in the language during this time were
eventually accepted into the language: while modern was borrowed, sempitern
‘always eternal’, first used in the same poem, was not. Often this was due to the
perception of redundancy: sempitern, for instance, isn’t really necessary when
we have eternal already. Some of the (attempted) borrowings were also considered pretentious by some and termed ‘inkhorn words’, words which passed
from the writer’s inkhorn to the page without ever being used in anyone’s
speech. But the perception that Latin rather than French origins were somehow
Where does English come from?
103
preferable encouraged changes in the spelling of certain words, such as doubt
for dout or plumber for plummer, which we’ll discuss further in Chapter 7.
By the end of the sixteenth century, English had become a supple vehicle of
expression across a wide range of domains. It was the language of law, government, the (Protestant) churches and a considerable and developing literature.
Although something like a standard variety existed, it was not fully focussed
and codified. Spellings were still highly variable (within a set of options).
Creative artists could still experiment in vocabulary and structure in ways
which would be considered deeply avant-garde today. Let’s take a look at a
famous speech by Shakespeare:
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
Observe how effectively Macbeth jumps from plain English into baroque Latin
polysyllables and then back again: this is unlike anything which had come
before and, in reality, unlike anything which would follow in a fully codified
English.
With the publication of the 1611 Authorised Version of the Bible, however,
which itself was the product of over a century of experimentation, the greatest of
authority was vested in the rather conservative London English it represented.
Written in a relatively plain style which did not encourage experimentation and
the borrowing of too many Latin or Greek words when native English ones
sufficed (if you want to see what I mean by this, compare the language of the
dedication of the Authorised Version to that of the translation itself), its authority gradually encouraged uniformity of use and discouraged experimentation.
Speakers of English were at something of a crossroads in 1611. New worlds
were opening – both in space and in thought – which would inevitably affect the
language profoundly. Many of these changes will be dealt with in Chapters 6
and 7. But before we leave the subject, an interesting question needs to be asked:
to what extent could we turn the clock back and retrieve a ‘native’ English?
English vocabulary and ‘purity’
Probably because of its contacts with Norse and, in particular, French, English
is, in fact, unusually receptive to non-native words. While speakers of the
language have never borrowed French vocabulary at the speed they did in the
Middle Ages in the modern era, there are always a few words, such as quiche or
baguette, which infiltrate due either to need or prestige. This borrowing impulse
has been extended to any other language with which English has come into
contact. In the last hundred years, karaoke has been borrowed from Japanese,
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yoghurt from Turkish, kayak from an Eskimo language, and so on. Very few
people ever complain vociferously about this process (although someone might
object to a particular word or set of words). This, even more than the borrowing,
is unusual when compared with practically all other standardised European
languages. In practice, speakers of these languages regularly borrow from
external sources; this is often perceived as in some way ‘diluting’ the language,
however. Vocabulary purism is practically unknown for English: indeed,
English speakers often find purist outbursts pointless and faintly eccentric.
They are also linguistically interesting.
In 1340, the Kentish monk Dan Michel wrote a book which he called The
Ayenbite of Inwyt – in modern spelling, ‘The Again-bite of Inwit’. This strangelooking title corresponds to Modern English ‘The Remorse of Conscience’. The
Latin word remorsum really does mean ‘biting again’, and the metaphor here is the
notion that feelings of guilt keep biting (gnawing) at the sufferer. Latin conscientia
is really ‘with-knowing’ rather than ‘in knowing’, but the monk preferred the
second interpretation, using the native English word wit, which in his day meant
‘knowledge’, though it has since changed its meaning rather dramatically.
Michel’s book enjoyed a certain notoriety, but his suggestions did not catch
on. French and Latin continued to prevail in the English abstract vocabulary,
and there was little interest in coining or using native English equivalents.
In the nineteenth century, the Dorset poet William Barnes raised a lonely
protest against the mass of foreign words in English. He suggested, for example,
that omnibus (modern bus) might be replaced by the native English creation
folkwain ‘people wagon’ – a word which is curiously almost identical in
formation to German Volkswagen ‘people’s car’.
In 1966, however, the humorist Paul Jennings provided us, in the pages of
Punch magazine, with an example of what English might have been like if the
Norman Conquest had never happened, and if William Barnes’s dreams had
come true. Here is an extract, in which the author adopts the conceit that
William of Normandy was defeated at Hastings:
In a foregoing piece (a week ago in this same mirthboke) I wrote anent the ninehundredth
yearday of the Clash of Hastings; of how in that mighty tussle, which othered our lore for
coming hundredyears, indeed for all following aftertide till Domesday, the would-be
ingangers from France were smitten hip and thigh; and of how, not least, our tongue
remained selfthrough and strong, unbecluttered and unbedizened with outlandish Latinborn roots of French outshoot…Our Anglish tongue, grown from many birth-ages of
yeomen, working in field or threshing-floor, ringing-loft or shearing-house, mead and
thicket and ditch, under the thousand hues and scudding clouds of our ever-othering
weather, has been enmulched over the hundredyears with many sayings born from everyday
life. It has a unbettered muchness of samenoiselike and againclanger wordgroups, such as
wind and water, horse and hound, block and tackle, sweet seventeen…The craft and insight
of our Anglish tongue for the more cunning switchmeangroups, for unthingsome and
overthingsome withtakings, gives a matchless tool to bards, deepthinkers and trypiecemen.
Where does English come from?
105
Some of Jennings’s coinages may be difficult: samenoiselike means ‘onomatopoeic’, againclanger means ‘alliterative’, switchmeangroup means ‘metaphor’,
unthingsome means ‘abstract’, overthingsome means ‘metaphysical’, withtaking means ‘concept’ (Latin conceptus is literally ‘with-taking’), and trypiece
means ‘essay’.
How does this strike you? Would English be better off without its tens of
thousands of borrowed words? Would the language be richer and more expressive if we said foregoing instead of ‘preceding’, yearday instead of ‘anniversary’, othering instead of ‘changing’, hundredyear instead of ‘century’,
inganger instead of ‘invader’, outshoot instead of ‘derivation’, enmulch instead
of ‘enrich’, unbettered instead of ‘unsurpassed’, and deepthinker instead of
‘philosopher’?
Before leaving Jennings, I might point out that he slipped up slightly. The
words remained, noise, age and piece, which occur in the passage, are in fact
loans from French, if perhaps rather well-disguised ones, and bard is taken from
Irish or Welsh. (And loft comes from Old Norse, although this is at least
Germanic.) Even with scrupulous attention, it is not easy to get through a
sentence of English without using any words of foreign origin.
The extensive foreign contributions to English vocabulary have produced an
extraordinarily rich and expressive language. We can choose native English
words for a blunt and direct style, or we can prefer French and Latin words for
an elevated and subtle effect.
Conclusion
There is nothing providential about the present status of English. Its peculiar
position as world language has been achieved through non-linguistic means.
What is interesting about the history of English is the remarkable time-depth we
can achieve when discussing a language which, until relatively recently, was
rather obscure. During that period, we have seen how internal change can be
affected by external contacts, a point to which we will return with other
languages in Chapter 8. Most of all, the vocabulary of English has been changed
and formed by external contacts.
Modern English is not monolithic, of course. It exists in a range of different
dialects, primarily unwritten, which are often strikingly different from each
other. More visibly, it also exists in a range of national standard versions, not
normally that different from each other, but sufficiently so (and sufficiently
associated with notions of national pride) to be remarked upon. The next chapter
will deal with the most striking of these distinctions: between the ‘mother’
variety, British English, and that used by the most economically and politically
powerful English-speaking country, American English.
6
Why is American English different
from British English?
In the early seventeenth century, the first English-speaking colonists settled
in North America, first in Virginia, then in Massachusetts, and before long
along the entire east coast. Reinforced by a steady flow of English speakers
from all parts of England and Wales and later also of Scotland and Ireland,
these settlements guaranteed that English would be the principal language
of the little colonies which would eventually grow into the United States of
America, the largest English-speaking nation in the world. Today more than
half of all native speakers of English are American citizens.
Those early settlers of North America took with them the same English
they had spoken at home. Yet today the differences between British and
American English are numerous and prominent. There are differences in
pronunciation. To an American, fertile rhymes perfectly with turtle, while to
a Briton these words do not sound even vaguely similar. And, to an
Englishman, a klahk is a person who performs routine paperwork in an
office, while to an American a klahk is a machine that tells you what time
it is. There are differences in spelling: British colour and American color;
British civilise and American civilize; British theatre and American theater;
and many others. There are differences in vocabulary. The season after
summer is autumn in Britain but fall in the States, and the thing you turn to
get water is a tap in Britain but a faucet in the States. There are differences
in word meaning. The first floor is located above the ground floor in
Britain, while in the USA it is the ground floor. And there are even differences
in grammar. Where an American says I’ve just gotten a letter, a Briton must
say I’ve just got a letter, which is possible for the American but means
something completely different – something along the lines of ‘I have only
got one letter’.
Where have these differences come from? And why are there so many of
them? In this chapter, I’ll try to provide some answers to these questions,
illustrating them with examples, often those which confuse British people most.
As a taster, however, I will concentrate on one word which sums up the
comment of George Bernard Shaw (neither British nor American, it should be
noted) that Britain and the United States are ‘divided by the same language’.
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Why is American English different from British English?
107
Aluminum
The name of the light, silvery metallic element with the atomic number 13
and the chemical symbol Al differs on the two sides of the Atlantic in a
unique way: the British form is aluminium, with five syllables, while the
American form is aluminum, with four. No other English word exhibits this
peculiar kind of variation. Magnesium, for instance, has exactly this form
everywhere in the English-speaking world, while the word platinum likewise
shows no regional variation in form at all. So why the transatlantic difference
in alumin(i)um?
In my experience, almost every person in Britain believes that the explanation is simple: the Americans have messed up the language again. But is this
the case?
The metal itself was not known in ancient times, but one of its compounds
was. This compound, called alumen by the Romans, is an astringent which is
useful in stopping the bleeding from small cuts. In English, this compound is
called alum; it is still used to make the styptic pencils used in boxing.
Another compound, which we now know to be the oxide of the metal, was
isolated much later and named alumina; alumina is an important constituent of
clays and of certain minerals, such as sapphire. And it was from alumina that
the pure metal was finally isolated in the early nineteenth century.
The distinguished English chemist Sir Humphry Davy gave himself the
task of naming the new metal. His first proposal (in 1809) was to take the
existing name alum and simply add the Latinate suffix -ium to the end,
producing alumium, but his friends disliked this name and persuaded him to
think again. So, observing that the metal was derived from alumina, Davy
simply changed the ending of this name to the metallic -um and thus came up
with aluminum (in 1812). This new name spread rapidly throughout the
English-speaking world, including of course the United States.
But then, some years later, another (anonymous) British chemist decided
that names of metals ‘ought’ to end in – ium (as with magnesium and potassium;
how he would reconcile this categorisation with the form of the gas helium is
unrecorded, sadly), and so he proposed a change from aluminum to aluminium,
with a slightly different spelling and a very different pronunciation. Within a
few years the altered form aluminium had established itself in Britain.
In the USA, the American Chemical Society noted that the British had
changed the name to aluminium, and, because most scholars in the young
United States still looked to Britain as the main source of cultural and intellectual developments at this time, the Society changed its official form of the
name to match the new British one. However, already used to Davy’s original
choice, aluminum, Americans continued to use this form, and they ignored
the Society’s official decision. This state of affairs continued for decades, with
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Why Do Languages Change?
the Society officially recognising the newer British form, and everybody else
in the States clinging to the older. Finally, in 1925, realising that no one was
paying any attention to its earlier decision, the American Chemical Society
bowed to reality and changed its official form back to aluminum.
Oddly, the curious British campaign in favour of -ium never reached platinum, with nobody arguing instead for *platinium. Nevertheless, the Britons
have never hesitated to play fast and loose with the language when it suited
them, as we will see below. Tinkering with English is by no means an exclusively American hobby.
Why are the words different
The greatest differences between British and American English are in vocabulary. Entire books have been published consisting of nothing but lists of
such differences. Some of these differences are obscure, while others are
famous. Table 6.1 presents a small sample.
Because of a few cases like UK lift versus US elevator, there is a perception in Britain that American words are generally longer than the corresponding British words, when these differ. This is often taken by Britons as
proof of American prolixity or pompousness. But this is not so, and there
are just as many examples in which it is the British word which is longer.
A book of recipes is a cookbook in the US, but conventionally a cookery
book in the UK. The grassy strip between the two sides of a US divided
highway or a UK dual carriageway is the median in the US but the central
reservation in the UK. The British have no monopoly on brevity.
There are many reasons why the British and the Americans so often have
different words for things. One is geography.
There is a plant whose fragrant leaves are often used as seasoning in cooking.
These leaves are called coriander in Britain but cilantro in the USA. France
has for centuries been regarded in Europe as the country with the most sophisticated high culture, not least in cuisine. French cultural influence on British
English has been enormous – nowhere more than in matters of cuisine – and
British coriander is taken from French coriandre. But faraway France has had
almost no direct influence on the USA, and none at all on American cuisine,
apart from the – only vaguely French – Creole and Cajun cuisines of Louisiana.
But the US shares a long border with Mexico. Mexican cuisine, popular in
many parts of the USA, uses the herb in question. Its Spanish name is cilantro,
and that is what was borrowed into American English.
A similar discrepancy can be found in the names of the fleshy vegetable
called courgettes in Britain but zucchini in the USA: the British name is
taken from French again, while the American name this time comes from the
language of the Italian immigrants who introduced it to American cooking.
Why is American English different from British English?
109
Table 6.1 Some British–American vocabulary differences
UK
US
UK
US
lift
boot (of a car)
leader
laundrette
bowler (hat)
off-licence
beetroot
head teacher
biscuit
scone
fancy-dress party
sleeping partner
football
crisps
fish slice
elevator
trunk
editorial
laundromat
derby
liquor store
beets
principal
cookie
biscuit
costume party
silent partner
soccer
potato chips
pancake turner
pavement
waistcoat
vest
aubergine
handbag
pram
fringe (hairdo)
banknote
queue
flat
pensioner
lorry
trousers
slowcoach
rocket (herb)
sidewalk
vest
undershirt
eggplant
purse
baby buggy
bangs
bill
line
apartment
retiree
truck
pants
slowpoke
arugula
Another reason for transatlantic differences in vocabulary is merely different selection. Four or five centuries ago, the season after summer could
be called either fall (a native English word) or autumn (a word taken from
French). Both words were in use in Britain, and both were carried across the
Atlantic to the American colonies. But the Americans gradually began to
prefer the native word until it was finally the only word left in everyday
speech, while autumn became confined to formal or poetic styles only. In
Britain, precisely the opposite development occurred, as speakers increasingly preferred autumn for everyday use. The word fall became rarer. By
the late nineteenth century, it was virtually gone in Britain except in the
fossilised expression spring and fall; this phrase was used by the English
poet Gerard Manley Hopkins as the title of one of his most famous poems,
but today fall is completely foreign to most British people. Some elderly
speakers of the traditional dialects of the English southwest may still use
the word occasionally, but they are probably few in number now.
Much the same happened with the words tap and faucet, except that this
time it was the British who finally settled on native English tap and the
Americans who came to prefer the French word faucet.
For the most part, however, the lexical differences between British and
American English are merely the inevitable result of two or three centuries
of separation and independent development. Until well into the twentieth
century, it took weeks of sailing to get from Liverpool or Bristol to New
York, while any part of the vast interior of the USA required months of
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Why Do Languages Change?
Table 6.2 British and American automobile vocabulary
British
American
windscreen
bonnet
wing
quarterlight
boot
carburettor
indicator
hazard lights
running lights
tyre
windshield
hood
fender
wing
trunk
carburetor (with a different pronunciation)
turn signal
flashers
parking lights
tire
laborious travel from anywhere in Britain. Even if Americans and Britons had
been eager to use the same words – and most of them were not – there
were huge practical obstacles. When people on one side of the Atlantic
needed a new word, they invented one, and they didn’t bother whether
other speakers in other countries thousands of miles away might be using
a different word for the same thing.
Trains and cars provide good examples of this. As these new technologies
spread on both sides of the Atlantic, they produced a large number of new,
but often different, words. Just to start with, the new train systems were
dubbed railways in Britain but railroads in the USA. Each of the individual
units within a train came to be called a carriage in Britain but a car in the
States. The person driving the train became a train driver in Britain but
an engineer in the USA. The place where passengers got on and off was
generally a station on both sides, but the American practice of attaching
a storage building to a small local station led Americans to use depot
(pronounced ‘DEE-po’) for a small station. A train stopping at every local
station along a route became a stopping train for Britons but a local for
Americans. And, as is well known, a ticket good for a complete trip is a
return ticket in Britain but a round-trip ticket in the States.
Cars, invented decades later than trains, provide more dramatic differences,
as demonstrated in Table 6.2.
A curious difference here is British tyre versus American tire for a rubber
wheel covering. English speakers had for centuries been applying the
name tires to the iron rims of wagon wheels. When the newfangled airfilled rubber rims were invented for motor cars, the Americans simply transferred the name to the new invention. But the British became so excited by
the new gadgets that they decided a new name was called for, and so they
capriciously changed the spelling to the more exotic-looking tyre.
Why is American English different from British English?
111
Utterly mysterious to Americans are the British terms off side (for the side of
the car where the driver sits) and near side (for the other side). The American
terms are the altogether more transparent driver’s side and passenger side, and
probably no American has yet understood why the side farther away from
the driver should be the ‘near’ side. Equally unfathomable to Americans is the
British custom of applying inside lane to the lane next to the edge of the road
and outside lane to the lane next to the middle of the road.
More recent still is the technology of films. Here, probably because of the
enormous predominance of the Hollywood film industry, transatlantic differences are few. But the product itself has multiple names. The term moving
picture has been used in English for centuries to label the output of all kinds
of quaint mechanical gadgets, but the first record of its use in connection with
films dates from 1896 – provided by Queen Victoria, no less! The slightly
different version motion picture is recorded from 1891, in the USA.
The Americans soon settled on moving picture as their preferred word,
but it wasn’t long before this was clipped to movie, first recorded in 1912,
which quickly went on to establish itself as the everyday American name.
While the longer form moving picture gradually dropped out of use, the other
form, motion picture, remained in American use, but as a much more formal
term. Today this formal version is heard only in the name of the Academy of
Motion Picture Arts and Sciences – the body that awards the Oscars – and in
all those irritating trailers announcing ‘Now a major motion picture!’ (apparently Hollywood does not admit to any minor motion pictures).
British English went a different route. The word film had come to be
applied to the strip of material on which the pictures were recorded, and in
Britain this name was soon transferred to the movie itself – a use recorded in
Britain from 1905. For many years, then, movie and film were a prominent
transatlantic pair.
In recent years, however, the American movie has come to be heard frequently in Britain, probably because this word sounds cooler or zippier or
more streetwise than film. At the same time, the British film has crept into use
among Americans, many of whom have apparently decided that this word is
more dignified and hence more appropriate for serious discussions than movie.
Another early name for the technology was the flickers, possibly derived
from the jumpy experience for the viewer when film was shown too slowly and
the separate still pictures which make up the moving image were perceptible.
Shortened to the flicks, this has remained a very informal American word, as
in We’re going to the flicks, and it has also caught on in Britain. Furthermore,
it has given rise to a new singular form flick, meaning ‘(an individual) film’, as
in Spielberg’s new flick.
The place in which movies are shown also has different names. The first
American name was nickelodeon, from nickel – the price of admission was five
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cents – and Melodeon ‘music hall’. But the name didn’t last long, perhaps
because the price went up – although the word was later revived for a juke box
costing five cents. Americans then seized upon the existing word theater, the
usual name for a place providing public performances, and coined movie
theater. In Britain, the situation was a little more complicated. The machine
which showed the film had been dubbed a cinematograph, and the French
version of this word was promptly shortened in French to cinéma. The shortened version was taken into British English as cinema, and the theatre accordingly came to be known as a cinema hall or house. This was itself shortened
to cinema, which became the ordinary British word for a hall where a film is
viewed communally.
The level of influence American English has had over British English
vocabulary related to an industry dominated by America can be repeated in a
wide range of fields. While the flow is not entirely one-way, the American
contribution to the vocabulary of world English has been enormous. Among
the countless American coinages are these: radio, disc jockey, waterfront, right
away, get along with, fall for, make the grade, break even, get around to,
babysitter, boyfriend and girlfriend, scrape the bottom of the barrel, knowhow, grapevine, in the red, bandwagon, hitchhike, show business, merger,
publicity, executive, hindsight, gimmick, commuter and rare (of a steak). No
English speaker can open her mouth without taking advantage of this vast
and often colourful American contribution.
American spellings
For a number of historical reasons, the English spelling system is complex,
irregular and often downright eccentric. We pronounce the words rite,
write, right and wright all the same. The past tenses of the verbs lead and
read are led and read, which rhyme, but only the first gets a spelling change –
while the name of the metal lead is pronounced like led but spelled like
the verb lead. The words through, bough, dough, cough and rough look as
if they should rhyme, but no two of them do. The vowel of day is spelled in
a dozen or more different ways: day, weigh, rain, lake, gauge, mania, prey,
suede, veil, eh, great, and the now old-fashioned gaol. And we have all sorts
of mysteries like debt, phlegm, autumn, knot, quay, sign, people, buoy and
thyme. Some of this eccentricity will be discussed in the next chapter.
Indeed, so eccentric is our spelling that you might think a few regional
differences would hardly cause any comment. But not so. Even though
Britons and Americans agree on the spellings of more than 99 per cent of
English words, the transatlantic differences in the spelling of the small
number of remaining words are conspicuous to everybody, and they attract
a great deal of comment.
Why is American English different from British English?
113
Why don’t all English speakers spell all English words in the same way? To
begin with, the fixing of English spelling was a long, slow, gradual process
extending over centuries. In the Middle Ages, there was no agreed spelling
system, and everyone used whatever spellings were normal in their region
and appealed to them on that occasion. Here is a small sample from the year
1476, extracted from a letter by John Paston, a tiny part of the voluminous
correspondence of the Paston family of Norfolk:
Mastresse, thow so be that I, vnaqweyntyd wyth yow as yet, tak vp on me to be thus
bold as to wryght on to yow wyth ought your knowlage and leve, yet, mastress, for
syche pore seruyse as I now in my mind owe yow, purposyng, ye not dyspleasyd,
duryng my lyff to contenue the same, I beseche yow to pardon my boldness, and
not to dysdeyn, but to accepte thys sympyll bylle to recomand me to yow in syche wyse
as I best can or may jmagyn to your most plesure.
Observe that the word mistress is spelled in two different ways in this one
sentence. At this time, and for centuries afterwards, such fluctuation in spelling
within a single document was commonplace.
With the introduction of printing into England in the 1470s, English spelling began to grow more consistent, since the printers found it convenient to
choose particular spellings and to stick to these as far as possible. But standardisation was a slow process. William Shakespeare, for instance, spelled his
own name in several different ways – and fluctuation in spelling was still
common in the seventeenth century, and far from rare in the eighteenth.
From the seventeenth century on, dictionaries of English began to be written,
and the decisions of the lexicographers (dictionary-writers) helped to provide
some further stabilisation. Even so, by the time of American independence in
1783, English spelling was still not fully fixed: there were still a number of
words with multiple spellings.
In Britain, these variable spellings were addressed by the formidable figure
of Dr Samuel Johnson, who compiled his own dictionary of English, published in 1755. In the cases of doubtful spelling, Johnson chose the forms
he preferred, and his choices – many of which had already been selected in
earlier dictionaries – have largely become the standard spellings in Britain.
Let’s look at some of his decisions.
English has a verb-forming suffix -ize, of Greek origin. This suffix occurs in
very many verbs of some age in the language, like realize, civilize and satirize,
and it is often used to coin new verbs, like demonize, finalize and hospitalize.
Traditionally, this suffix was spelled -ize in English, and it still is in American
English, where nothing has happened. In French, however, the spelling -izer
gave way centuries ago to the changed spelling -iser, as in French civiliser
‘civilise’. As so often, what the French were doing induced the British to do
the same, and so many British writers began to write realise and civilise in
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place of the traditional forms. By Johnson’s day, these new spellings had
become common, and Johnson gave them his seal of approval.
As a result, the altered spellings with -ise are now preferred by most
Britons. But not by all: some conservative quarters in Britain still insist on
the old spellings in -ize. The august Oxford University Press prefers -ize in all
its publications, including its dictionaries. The same was true of the Times
newspapers before Rupert Murdoch bought them. Today, the traditional spellings in -ize are still universal in American English, but they are confined to
a small and shrinking minority of conservative writers in Britain. Complaints
about the change in spelling are now rare, but fans of the TV detective
Inspector Morse – an Oxford man, of course – may recall that the eponymous
sleuth, in dismissing a supposed suicide note as a forgery, shouted angrily at
Sergeant Lewis ‘You can’t spell realize with an S, Lewis – it’s illiterate!’
Much the same thing has happened with another familiar group of words
spelled differently on the two sides of the Atlantic: the group represented by
the words theatre and centre. The traditional English spellings of these
are theater, center, and so on, and these spellings were well established by
the seventeenth century. But, of course, the French spellings of these words
are théatre, centre, and so on. Eager to claim some of the prestige of French
for their own language, British writers began using the French spellings in
English, and again Dr Johnson approved the new spellings. This time no
conservatives held out in Britain, and theatre and centre are now the only
possibilities in British English. But the older spellings remain undisturbed
in American English, where they are likewise the only possibilities.
Why did these French-inspired changes in spelling find no lasting foothold
in American English? The breadth of the Atlantic Ocean was no doubt one
factor. But there was another one, much more important: Noah Webster
(1758–1843).
Webster was an American writer with clear ideas. In an age when
Americans were still inclined to look to the mother country for guidance on
the language, Webster saw no reason to tolerate such an attitude. In his
sturdy opinion, American English was every bit as good as the English of
Britain, and perhaps even superior in vigour and inventiveness. Webster
resolved to turn his back on Britain. American English should go its own
way, and Webster was there to help it.
Webster’s 1828 dictionary was as influential in the young United States as
Johnson’s had been in Britain three-quarters of a century earlier. The
American had no time for the Frenchified pretensions of the British: he
insisted on the traditional spellings civilize and theater, and his influence
was great enough to see off any hesitant American inclination to follow
the British lead here. Webster saw himself as a reformer who would free
the language from many of the encumbrances it had accumulated during its
Why is American English different from British English?
115
long centuries of written history. To this end, he proposed a number of
‘simplified’ spellings. Not all his proposals won acceptance in the United
States, but a few of them did.
One that did was the group of words containing colour and humour. Though
the spellings of these words had earlier been as variable as those of any other
words, by the seventeenth century all these words were largely spelled with
-our. The spellings like colour were almost universal in Britain, and these were
the spellings carried to the New World.
But Webster saw a chance to improve English spelling. He proposed removing
the apparently useless letter U from these words and writing instead color and
humor, which was also the spelling in Latin and therefore prestigious. Unlike
some of Webster’s other ‘improvements’, this one was warmly received, and
the new spellings rapidly displaced the old ones in American English. Today
color and humor are the only possibilities in American English, while colour and
humour are likewise the only possibilities in Britain.
In fact, it is not difficult to see the attraction of Webster’s simplification in
this case. With all these words, the established spelling in Britain presents
some fiendish complexities. The problem is that the U in these words disappears when certain suffixes are added – but not when other suffixes are
added. So, for example, British spelling has humour but humorous and
humorist. It has vapour but vaporise and evaporate. Worst of all is colour.
British spelling requires colourful and colouring. Mysteriously, it also
requires colourist, in spite of the spelling of humorist. With the suffix
-ation, the preferred spelling is coloration, but this time the variant colouration is recognised by British dictionaries – if only because many people
have no idea how to spell it.
These British spellings demand agonies of indecision and much hasty
checking of dictionaries. And that’s without even mentioning the many
words that lack the U even in Britain, such as terror, stupor, motor and pallor.
Thanks to Webster, however, the Americans have no anxieties here at all:
the American spelling is always with -or, in every case, regardless of what
suffixes may be present. It should be noted, nonetheless, that Dr Johnson
was more consistent than is modern British English practice, employing
spellings like authour for author, for instance.
Another of Webster’s simplifications which caught on in the United States
concerns the words like traveller. In British spelling, it has long been usual to
double the final L of a verb whenever a suffix is added. So, travel forms
travelled, travelling and traveller, and the same doubling occurs with other
such verbs – revel, unravel, pencil, bedevil, channel and so on.
Webster saw no point in this doubling, and he proposed removing it. Again
his countrymen agreed with him, and the American spellings are traveled,
traveling, traveler, and likewise with all the other verbs of this type.
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These are the principal differences between British and American spelling.
Most of the remaining cases are miscellaneous one-offs. For example,
American English requires sulfur, the spelling used in classical Latin, while
British English has opted for sulphur, a quaint medieval spelling arising
from a confused idea that the word was of Greek origin and so should have
PH in it. On the other hand, British English prefers artefact, following the
classical Latin spelling, while American English has artifact, following the
medieval Latin spelling.
Britain formerly preferred connexion, but this spelling has now given way
almost entirely to connection, long preferred in the USA and more obviously
parallel to cases like direction and section. In a similar way, British millepede
has now yielded to the American style millipede, and the highly eccentric
British foetus has now been supplanted by the etymologically correct fetus,
which has always been the only possibility in American English. (The Latin
form was fetus, and the spelling foetus was originally an outright blunder.)
Pronunciation differences
The larger part of Great Britain has been occupied by English speakers for
something like 1,500 years. This has provided more than enough time for
large regional differences to evolve, in grammar, in vocabulary, and most
obviously in pronunciation. The differences in accent (and dialect) between
people from Somerset, London, Birmingham, Liverpool, Yorkshire,
Newcastle, Glasgow, the Welsh valleys and elsewhere are very great, sometimes great enough to prevent understanding. But English speakers first
reached the east coast of America only about 400 years ago, and they began
settling California only about 150 years ago. Regional differences in
American English are therefore much smaller than in Britain, simply because
there hasn’t been so much time for these differences to develop. Even so,
the east coast is already home to some very prominent regional accents: no
one would confuse the accent of New York with that of Boston or of
North Carolina. Much of the rest of the country, though, has been settled so
recently and so fast that noticeable regional differences in pronunciation
have begun to emerge only quite recently.
However, it is still obvious to everybody that American accents are collectively very different from all the accents of Britain. There is perhaps no
American accent today that might be mistaken for any kind of British accent,
though some of the accents of New England sound anglicising to other
American ears – if probably not to British ears. What are the reasons for these
conspicuous transatlantic differences in pronunciation?
There is, of course, only one possible explanation: since the Englishspeaking settlement of America, changes in pronunciation have occurred
Why is American English different from British English?
117
on one side of the Atlantic but failed to spread to the other side. In fact,
there have been very many changes in English pronunciation during the last
400 years. Some of these have affected both sides of the Atlantic. Some
have affected only one side. Some have affected one side and spread to a
little bit of the other side. Many have affected only part of one side, but
often a prominent part. There are even one or two cases in which identical
changes have occurred independently on both sides of the water, but at
different times. Here we have space to look at only a few of the more
prominent changes.
Difference 1: /r/-dropping
This is the simple label for what is technically termed non-prevocalic /r/
loss. This is a change in pronunciation which gained prominence in the
south of England in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries: the
consonant /r/ disappeared from speech everywhere except before a vowel.
In other words, /r/ disappeared in cases like far, dark, bird, beer, cork, farther
and order, but it remained in cases like red, try, three, arrange, berry and
far away. In the new kind of pronunciation resulting from this change,
which we call non-rhotic (‘/r/-less’), star rhymes perfectly with Shah, and
farther is pronounced just like father. Neither of these things is true
for speakers who retain the older style of pronunciation, which we call rhotic
(‘/r/-ful’).
This new non-rhotic pronunciation arose among speakers of no particular
social distinction, and at first it was stigmatised as a vulgarism in England.
Over time, however, the new pronunciation crept up the social scale, until
finally it became accepted by the upper classes in England as the elegant
way to speak. Today non-rhotic pronunciation is the educated norm in all of
England, and it is also typical of vernacular speech in all of England and
Wales apart from the southwest of England (the ‘West Country’) and
Northumbria in the far north. Scottish and Irish speakers firmly retain their
/r/s, however. The more conservative rhotic speech of the West Country
now sounds quaint to most people in England, and West Country speakers
who want to be regarded as educated hasten to get rid of their native /r/s.
(If you’re not acquainted with it, the West Country accent is the ‘Aar, Jim lad’
accent always given to the sailors in portrayals of Stevenson’s Treasure
Island, which is set in that part of England.)
The new non-rhotic pronunciation was carried to the east coast of the USA
and established itself in cities like Boston, New York and Philadelphia, places
which a couple of centuries ago were still inclined to look to the ‘mother
country’ for standards in English. But the new pronunciation made little headway in Canada, and it never crossed the Appalachians at all: the American
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speech of most of the country retained the historical /r/s in all positions, just
as in the West Country.
Today non-rhotic speech is beyond question the prestige norm in England,
and also in all the English-speaking countries of the Southern Hemisphere,
which were mainly settled by non-rhotic speakers from England in the nineteenth century. But those American accents without /r/ – particularly that of
New York City – seem actually under threat from the return of conservative
rhotic pronunciations.
Into the early decades of the twentieth century, eastern Americans still
regarded /r/-less speech, the kind heard in England, as elegant. It is quite
noticeable that a number of American actresses of the 1930s and 1940s
had non-rhotic – and in fact strongly anglicising – accents. Among them
were Bette Davis and Katharine Hepburn, both born in New England in the
first decade of the twentieth century. But the steadily growing prominence
of midwestern and western accents, with their conspicuous /r/s, on the
radio, in Hollywood films, and eventually on television, finally made rhotic
speech the prestige norm in the American media, and the old non-rhotic
accents were no longer favoured by performers with claims to elegance.
Grace Kelly, who was born in 1928 into a rich and well-connected family
in Philadelphia, a traditionally non-rhotic area, but more than twenty years
later than Davis and Hepburn, was perhaps the last American actress to
cultivate an anglicising accent, but by the 1950s it was the mainstream,
/r/-full, accents of Marilyn Monroe and Doris Day that were the norm in
Hollywood.
So, /r/-dropping is an innovation of England which has spread to a substantial part of the English-speaking world, but which, after a long flirtation,
has failed to be accepted in North America. Americans and Canadians, like
the Scots and the Irish, cling resolutely to the older pronunciation here.
Some scholars have suggested that rhotic pronunciations have become associated with ‘heartland’ values in the USA rather than the worrying speech
(and even more worrying politics) of the immigrant populations of the eastern
cities with its lack of /r/.
Difference 2: /t/-tapping
Perhaps the single most striking feature of American pronunciation to British
ears is the phenomenon of /t/-tapping (or, in American terminology, /t/flapping). In an accent with /t/-tapping, the consonant /t/, when it occurs in
the middle of a word or a phrase, and certain other conditions are met, is
pronounced as a tap – that is, as a very brief flick of the tongue against the
gum-ridge. Most American accents have this tapping, though in fact tapping
applies not only to /t/ but also to /d/. As a result, in a tapping accent, atom sounds
Why is American English different from British English?
119
just like Adam, latter sounds just like ladder, and waiting sounds remarkably
similar to wading (though these last two often remain marginally different).
British speakers often say that Americans ‘pronounce their /t/s as /d/s’,
though in fact this is not what happens, and almost all Americans will strenuously deny this charge: Americans are sure that their /t/s are still /t/s, in spite of
the phonetic tapping which goes on.
There is no doubt at all that this tapping of /t/ and /d/ is an American
innovation; surprisingly little is known about its origins. Descriptions of
American pronunciation produced in the early years of the twentieth century
do not mention tapping at all, suggesting that it was not prominent at the
time, and in fact the few sound recordings of American English that survive
from this time do not show much tapping either. It therefore appears that
tapping is a very recent development in American English, at least as a
widespread phenomenon, although it may perhaps have been present much
longer in some local areas.
But, at least since the 1940s, tapping has been close to universal in American
speech, so we appear to be looking at a change in pronunciation which has
spread with almost blinding speed. Tapping is also now commonplace in
Canada, though it is not so pervasive there as it is south of the border.
Very strikingly, though, tapping is no longer a strictly North American
feature: it has begun to turn up in English speech all over the world. In recent
years, /t/-tapping has been observed in various vernacular accents of Britain,
Ireland, Australia and New Zealand. It appears to be gaining ground in these
countries. It may be that /t/-tapping will be universal in English in another
two or three generations, in which case what is now a prominent transatlantic
difference will no longer be so.
Are these other examples of tapping independent developments, or are
they the result of American influence? Nobody knows for certain, since we
just haven’t had enough linguists and phoneticians stationed in every corner
of the world to monitor the change. But the distinguished British
phonetician John Wells thinks that the rapid spread of tapping is most likely
the result of American influence – in which case its spread makes it the first
distinctively American contribution to the worldwide pronunciation of
English.
Difference 3: bath-broadening
Most varieties of English make a difference in pronunciation between the
vowel in can and the vowel in can’t. But only a few make a distinction
between cat (pronounced /æ/ or /a/) and bath (pronounced / ɑː/). This distinction affects the following words: bath, grass, fast, raft, master, dance, chance,
aunt, can’t, laugh, pass, plaster, after and a number of others.
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On the whole, these words have the cat vowel in the north of England, in
Scotland, in Ireland, in Canada, and in all of the USA except part of New
England. They have the bath vowel in the south of England, in Wales, in much
of New England, and in all the Southern Hemisphere countries (although
there is some variation with some of the words – most notably bath and
France – in Australia).
This distribution should be enough to tell you what has happened: in all
these words, the cat vowel is original, but they have shifted to the father
vowel in the south of England, a change in pronunciation carried to all of
the late-settled Southern Hemisphere countries but so far to nowhere else
except Wales and New England.
This bath-broadening is a peculiar change. It did not happen in a regular
and predictable way: instead, it applied to some words but not to other,
similar words. Generally, it applied to a word containing the cat vowel
when this vowel was followed by one of the sounds /s/ (as in pass), /f/
(as in laugh) or /θ/ (as in bath), or by the sequence /ns/ (as in dance) or /nt/
(as in aunt). But there are a number of exceptions: gas, bass (the fish), mass
(amount of material), Afghan, ant, and quite a few others. There are also
variable words: plastic and (Roman Catholic) mass usually have the cat
vowel in bath-broadening accents, but sometimes they have the bath-vowel
(particularly with the latter in ‘old’ English Catholic families).
Difference 4: Spelling pronunciation
Another group of words which are pronounced very differently on the
two sides of the Atlantic is the group containing fertile, sterile, missile,
mobile and docile. In the USA, these words have weak second syllables,
so that missile sounds just like missal, fertile rhymes perfectly with turtle,
and docile rhymes perfectly with fossil. In Britain, all these words are
pronounced with strong second syllables which sound like mile. Why the
striking difference?
The first edition of the great Oxford English Dictionary, compiled in Britain
in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, recommends the Americanstyle pronunciation in every case, though it recognises the current British
pronunciation as a second possibility in some cases. Clearly, then, we are
looking at another British innovation, and a very recent one. Pronunciations
rhyming with mile were just beginning to become noticeable in Britain in
the late nineteenth century but were not yet accepted as the educated norm.
Since then, these new pronunciations have driven the older ones entirely out
of the language in Britain, while at the same time they have had no effect at
all on American speech, which retains the traditional pronunciation, with a
weak final syllable, in every case.
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121
Where did the British change come from? It is an example of what we call
a spelling pronunciation. During the nineteenth century, the rate of literacy
grew enormously in Britain. This rapid growth in literacy had an interesting
consequence: very many people began learning words for the first time by
seeing them in writing, rather than by hearing them in speech. As a result,
they guessed at the likely pronunciations of these words by looking at
their spellings. Since fertile and the other words are spelled like mile, many
Britons jumped to the conclusion that they must also be pronounced like
mile, and, as a result, the new spelling pronunciations became frequent in
speech – so frequent that eventually nobody was using any other pronunciation. By some chance, this never happened in the USA, where the new
pronunciations are still wholly unknown.
There are other cases of spelling pronunciations in English. Centuries
ago, the consonant /t/ was lost in an English word whenever it was preceded
by /f/ or /s/ and followed by /n/ or /l/: soften, fasten, hasten, castle, whistle,
rustle, bustle, mistletoe and others. In all of these words, the archaic spelling
system retains the letter <t> just for old times’ sake, even though nobody
has pronounced a /t/ in any of them for centuries.
The silent <h> which was inherited from French, as in heir, hour and honest,
has also given rise to some spelling pronunciations. Everybody now pronounces an /h/ in host, and almost everybody now pronounces an /h/ in hotel. In
Britain, everybody now puts an /h/ into herb, while in the USA nobody does,
and Americans retain the traditional pronunciation with no /h/, producing
another striking transatlantic difference. On the other hand, many Britons
have no /h/ in adhesive and adhere.
One more spelling pronunciation is audible in the names of the days of
the week. These were traditionally pronounced with a weak final syllable, as
though they were Sundy, Mondy, Tuesdy, and so on; accordingly, Sunday
and Monday were perfect rhymes for Lundy (the name of an island), and
Friday rhymed with the female name Bridey. These pronunciations are still
usual in the USA, but in Britain a spelling pronunciation has altered the final
syllable of every one of these, and most Britons now say Sun-day, with the
second syllable pronounced just like day.
Difference 5: Unrounding of the pot vowel
We saw in Chapter 1 that earlier English ran into a problem with the vowels
of cot and caught, which became uncomfortably similar in pronunciation.
The solution in England was to move the vowel of caught to a new position,
away from the vowel of cot, which has remained essentially unchanged.
American English opted for the other solution, and it moved the vowel of
cot in the opposite direction. In fact, American pronunciation moved the cot
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vowel so dramatically that it became identical to the cat vowel. This change
is termed the unrounding of /ɒ/, where /ɒ/ is the phonetic symbol for the
traditional value of the cot vowel.
But the American solution is not unknown in England. Queen Elizabeth
I, in her private letters, spelled stop as stap, God as Gad, and so on with
other such words. This can only mean that she too spoke with an accent in
which the American solution had been adopted: the cot vowel had been
moved forward in the mouth and (very likely) merged with the father
vowel. Naturally, the portrayers of Queen Elizabeth I on screen, from Bette
Davis and Flora Robson to Cate Blanchett, have declined to reproduce
this pronunciation, which today sounds undignified to British speakers.
Difference 6: Stress retraction
Native English words are stressed on the first syllable: thunder, wonderful,
carefully. The only exceptions are words containing prefixes, like overcome,
unhappy, forget and befriend. But words taken from other languages often
have the stress on a later syllable, as in information, kangaroo, linguistics,
psychology, raccoon and specialisation. However, the native English pattern
has been pervasive, and English speakers, all over the globe, exhibit a
powerful tendency to move the stresses in these foreign words back to the
first syllable.
There are very many English words of foreign origin which used to be
pronounced with stress on the last syllable but which are now often heard
with stress on the first syllable. A few examples are magazine, research and
cigarette. In probably every English-speaking country, you can hear some
people pronouncing these with final stress while other people pronounce them
with initial stress. So far, we have no transatlantic difference.
But a few of these at least come close to being British–American differences. For example, the word detail is always pronounced with initial stress
in Britain, while in the USA final stress is at least as frequent as initial stress.
In Britain, translate always has final stress but initial stress in the States.
More spectacular is the case of inquiry, which is always stressed on the
second syllable in Britain but always stressed on the first syllable in the USA.
However, there is one group of words which constitutes an unmistakable
transatlantic difference. These are the two-syllable words borrowed from
modern French, such as ballet, garage, café, croquet, beret and pastel. In
American English, these words are always stressed on the last syllable,
while in British English they are always stressed on the first syllable.
Although one or two of these words, like ballet, have been present in
English for several centuries, most of them did not enter English before the
nineteenth century, or in some cases even the early twentieth century. The
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British–American differences here, then, do not really result from any changes
at all, but only from decisions about how to treat these words in different
places.
One result of this has been that speakers on one side of the Atlantic are
startled by the pronunciations on the other side. Partly responsible for this is
the universal English habit of reducing a syllable lacking the main stress.
Take the word café, for example. Here the careful American kaf-FAY easily
turns into k’FAY, which sounds odd to British ears. At the same time, the
careful British KAF-fay just as easily turns into KAFFy – a perfect rhyme for
taffy. Likewise, British garage commonly rhymes perfectly with marriage;
British beret commonly sounds just like berry; British ballet commonly
rhymes perfectly with rally; and British croquet commonly rhymes perfectly
with poky – all of these being pronunciations which are very strange indeed
to American ears.
They can even lead to misunderstandings. In my first few days in Britain,
I was dumbfounded to hear a British TV newsreader apparently refer to
‘Dame Margot Fonteyn, the well-known belly dancer’.
These are some of the pronunciation differences affecting groups of
words. Many other differences are confined to single words. For Americans
codify rhymes with modify, while for Britons it has the vowel of code. On the
other hand, for Britons granary rhymes with tannery, while for Americans
it has the vowel of grain. For Americans, tomato rhymes with potato; for
Britons it famously does not. Britons stress miscellany on the second syllable;
Americans on the first. Americans stress controversy on the first syllable,
while Britons are more and more often now stressing it on the second – a
recent development, and one which still annoys conservative British
speakers. The pronunciation of ate as et has long been considered elegant
in Britain, but it is regarded as ignorant in the USA, and it is now declining in
Britain. The usual educated British pronunciations of suggest, figure, recognise,
manufacture and liqueur – ‘sa-JEST’, ‘figga’, ‘rekanise’, ‘mannafacture’ and
‘li-CURE’ – all sound extremely uneducated to Americans, while the American
pronunciation of moths – ending like scythes – sounds hilarious to Britons.
Differences in grammar
Among regional varieties of vernacular English, differences in grammar are
considerable: Us is ready; I seen him yesterday; They comes here regular
like; I might could do it; I ain’t seen nobody. But most of these distinctive
vernacular forms are not accepted as standard on either side of the Atlantic,
and the grammatical differences between educated varieties of British and
American English are in fact rather few. Still, a few differences do exist. Let’s
look at some of the more prominent ones.
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Difference 1: The subjunctive
One of the most striking and even jarring grammatical differences between
American and British English arises with certain verb-forms. American
English makes a sharp and consistent difference in meaning between pairs
of sentences like the following:
(1) Susie insists that they be locked up.
(2) Susie insists that they are locked up.
The first of these means ‘Susie is demanding that they should be put behind
bars’, while the second means ‘Susie is asserting strongly that they are already
in jail.’ This is a big difference, and it would not occur to an American to
tangle these up.
Not so in British English, however. Structure 1 is practically non-existent
in Britain, where it can be found only in the formal English of a few
conservative speakers. In practice, British speakers say Susie insists that
they are locked up in order to express ‘Susie is demanding that they should
be put behind bars.’ Americans typically find this British construction
bewildering.
The same difference is found after a large number of verbs with meanings
like ‘suggest’, ‘recommend’, ‘insist’, ‘demand’ and ‘require’, and with structures like ‘be important’. Here are some American/British pairs:
AmEng:
BrEng:
AmEng:
BrEng:
I suggest that Susie take the job.
I suggest that Susie takes the job.
The report recommends that he be promoted.
The report recommends that he is promoted.
This difference carries over to the past tense:
AmEng:
BrEng:
AmEng:
BrEng:
AmEng:
BrEng:
Susie insisted that they be locked up.
Susie insisted that they were locked up.
I suggested that Susie take the job.
I suggested that Susie took the job.
The report recommended that he be promoted.
The report recommended that he was promoted.
In all of these examples, the verb-form which appears in the American
construction but not in the British construction is the simplest possible form
of the verb, the form which is entered in a dictionary, and which is variously
called the base form or the bare infinitive. For historical reasons, however,
when one of these forms occurs in the constructions we are talking about here,
it is called a subjunctive.
Why is American English different from British English?
125
This so-called subjunctive is in fact a much-reduced remnant of what was
a thousand years ago a whole array of subjunctive verb-forms in English. We
may therefore conclude that American English has to some extent retained
the ancient subjunctive, while British English has lost it almost entirely. And
this conclusion is largely true, but with a rider. It does not seem to be the
case that Americans have faithfully preserved the subjunctive through thick
and thin, century after century, while the British were carelessly losing
track of it. Instead, it appears that the subjunctive construction largely died
out in American English during the nineteenth century, just as in Britain,
but that it then made a dramatic comeback in America in the twentieth
century, almost from the grave. Some scholars would suggest that this is
due to the greater concentration on prescriptive grammar (‘grammar’ as
found in grammar books rather than in everyday speech) in American education than in mainstream British education.
Difference 2: The present perfect
British speakers will probably find the following exchange wholly unremarkable:
Susie: Have you eaten yet?
Mike: Yes; we’ve just finished.
The verb-forms displayed here, with the auxiliary have, are instances of what
is called the present perfect.
In American English, there is a high probability that this exchange will take
a slightly different form:
Susie: Did you eat yet?
Mike: Yes; we just finished.
This time there are no present-perfect forms, and both speakers are using the
simple past tense.
The present perfect is by no means absent from American English. But
Americans seem to use the present perfect less frequently than do British
speakers, and this failure to use the present perfect when it is possible is
perhaps the feature of American grammar that strikes Britons most
emphatically.
How did this difference come about? One popular suggestion is that the
perfect was once usual in America, but that its use has declined over time,
possibly because of the effect of the millions of European immigrants, few
of whose languages contain a distinction comparable to English I ate and
I have eaten. Obvious though such a view might appear, there is little direct
evidence to support it. Another possibility is that the perfect has always
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Why Do Languages Change?
been rather uncommon in English, and that the modern British taste for it is a
rather recent development. There isn’t much evidence for this view either,
however.
Arguing against the first proposal is the observation that the American
reluctance to use the perfect applies only to certain functions of the
perfect, but not to all of them. For example, every American unhesitatingly
says Have you ever been to Europe?, and nobody would try to express this as
Were you ever in Europe?, which is possible but has a quite different meaning.
Interestingly, a recent study by Geoffrey Sampson has revealed that – contrary to expectation – the present perfect is in fact virtually extinct in the
vernacular speech of southern England – though the perfect remains vigorous
in northern England and in Scotland, and it remains a necessity in educated
speech even in the south. Nobody knows how this has happened, but Sampson
is inclined to suspect American influence. It seems that the difference is no
longer quite so transatlantic after all.
Difference 3: Collective nouns
A third prominent difference of grammar between British and American
English involves what we call collective nouns. Collective nouns are nouns
naming groups of people, such as committee, government, cabinet, working
party, council, and the official name of most sports teams. When one of
these nouns occurs in its singular form, then American English requires
singular agreement, while British English permits plural agreement and
sometimes requires it.
American English requires The government has announced a tax cut.
British English allows, and often prefers, The government have announced a
tax cut, which is simply ungrammatical for Americans. Some British commentators suggest that plural agreement is especially to be expected in British English
when the collective noun is used in a way that emphasises the presence of
several people in the group, as in The Cabinet are divided on this issue. Quite
possibly, but American English still demands The Cabinet is divided.
This difference shows up most clearly with the names of sports clubs. Britons
almost unfailingly say Liverpool have signed a new midfielder; though has is
technically possible here, no one ever seems to use it. In great contrast,
Americans allow only Buffalo has signed a new tight end, and have in this
sentence would be instantly ungrammatical.
How did this difference arise? I have seen very little work on this topic,
and I don’t feel confident about making assertions. My impression, however,
is that earlier English was not particularly consistent about this kind of agreement, and that the two observable patterns have simply developed independently on the two sides of the water.
Why is American English different from British English?
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Difference 4: Compound nouns
We are already beginning to run a little short of significant grammatical
differences, but here is one which is at least interesting. It involves compound nouns constructed by combining two simple nouns. English regularly
forms compound nouns constructed by combining two simple nouns: girlfriend, card game, chessman, ice cube, tennis racquet, footrace and countless
others. It used to be the case that the first element must always appear in
what we might call its singular form, though a better label would be its
stem form. So, a person who steals cars is a car thief, and not a *cars thief
(the asterisk here marks an impossible form). A football player who scores
lots of goals is a goal-scorer, and not a *goals-scorer. A man who runs
endlessly after women is a skirt-chaser, not a *skirts-chaser. Paul Simon or
Paul McCartney is a songwriter, and never a *songswriter, even though
each has written many songs.
So powerful is this rule that it even applies to nouns that have no singular.
For example, oats has only a plural form, and it has no singular at all: *an oat
is impossible. But it forms compounds like oatmeal and oatcake, and never
like *oatsmeal or *oatscake. Likewise, we have trouser pocket, and not *trousers pocket, even though no such word as *trouser exists: *I need a new trouser.
(Exception: this last is normal for workers in the garment trade, but not for
anyone else.)
This is the tradition. Naturally, English being English, a handful of exceptions have been long tolerated, such as newspaper and sportswriter. In recent
years, though, things have changed.
When I first came to Britain, in 1970, I was soon struck by the frequency of
exceptional forms. Everywhere I saw, and still see, forms like trades union,
greetings card, drugs pusher, expenses claim, examinations board and crafts
teacher. All of these are ill-formed in my American English, which allows
only the forms without that <s> in the middle. Clearly British English
has innovated here, I thought to myself: it has begun departing radically
from the traditional patterns of English word formation.
But now I find that something similar is beginning to happen in American
English. American English has not yet gone nearly so far as British English,
and all the examples above are still unacceptable for most Americans. Change
is taking place in baseball terminology, however.
The New York Yankees are a baseball team, and for as long as the team has
existed its fans have been called Yankee fans, and its current manager has been
the Yankee manager. Suddenly I find that the younger baseball writers are
consistently describing Rudolph Giuliani as a Yankees fan, and Joe Torre (the
incumbent) as the Yankees manager. This started happening perhaps only
around ten years ago, but now it is pervasive. It’s too early to say what the
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Why Do Languages Change?
outcome will be, but it may be that the prominent transatlantic difference
I found in 1970 will no longer be one.
Difference 5: Shall
British English (or at least England and Wales: Scotland is much closer
to America on this occasion) still retains the auxiliary shall for use in cases
like I shall do it – though this form is now decidedly formal and confined
to educated speakers. American English has completely lost shall in
this function, and it permits only I will do it or I’ll do it. In American
English, shall survives only when something like a binding offer is being
given in the function illustrated by this example: Shall I open the window?
Otherwise, shall is dead in the USA – and its future is uncertain even in
Britain.
Difference 6: Other differences
The remaining grammatical differences are mostly rather trivial. Both varieties retain the traditional form I’ve forgotten her name, but only American
English still has I’ve just gotten a letter – the form found in Britain in
the sixteenth century – while standard British English has replaced this
with I’ve just got a letter – or, increasingly now, with the alternative I just
got a letter, possibly under American influence.
British English permits questions like Have you any children?, while
American English prefers Do you have any children? To the question Have
you got rye bread?, Britain prefers the answer Yes; we have, while the USA
typically uses Yes; we do.
Britons say He drove right past me – he can’t have seen me. Americans
say … he must not have seen me. There are a few differences with prepositions. Britons cater for something, while Americans cater to the same
thing. While the ‘official’ standard form is different from in both
countries, the vernacular version is different to in Britain but different than
in the States.
British English permits sentences like Immediately she had arrived, we sat
down to work. This does not work for Americans, who require Immediately
after… or As soon as… British English uses in case in a way that strikes
Americans as odd: There is a plastic screen around an ice-hockey rink, in
case spectators are hit by the puck. Americans require… to keep spectators
from being hit by the puck.
Finally, Britons commonly use the phrase your one, as in Which is your
one? Americans require Which is yours?, which is also the form preferred
in formal written British English.
Why is American English different from British English?
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Summary
The many and prominent differences between British and American English
have mostly arisen because of changes in English that have occurred on
one side of the Atlantic but not on the other since the settlement of North
America by English speakers several centuries ago – though some of the
differences result from differing choices between competing forms that
were already in the language at the time of the settlement. Changes have
occurred equally on both sides of the pond, and it is not possible to say
that one of the two varieties has changed more dramatically than the other
during the last 400 years – except perhaps in pronunciation, where there is a
good case that Britain, or at least the south of England, has changed more
substantially than has America.
In the next chapter we will consider a further ramification of the history of
English: its spelling system.
7
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
The mess that is English spelling
English has probably the most eccentric, irregular and infuriating spelling
system in the world. While other languages, like Spanish, Italian and Finnish,
have largely regular spelling systems with only a few exceptions here and there,
English spelling is so densely buried in exceptions that the regularities can be
hard to find.
On the one hand, a single sound gets multiple spellings. For example, all of
the following words are perfect rhymes for most speakers of English (though
not for Scots): herd, bird, word, curd, heard, inferred, stirred, purred. One
rhyme, at least eight spellings. On the other hand, a single spelling often
represents several different sounds: through, dough, bough, cough and rough
look as if they should all rhyme, but in fact no two of them do.
So messy is English spelling that it becomes an entertaining exercise to find
all the ways of spelling any single sound. Take the sound /ai/, as in the word eye.
In how many different ways do we spell this sound in English? Here’s a list, not
guaranteed to be complete. Four or five of these are ‘regular’ spellings, found in
a large number of words, while others are idiosyncratic spellings confined to a
handful of words or even to a single word.
<i>
<i…e>
<ie>
<ig>
<igh>
<is>
<ic>
<y>
<ye>
<eye>
<uy>
<ei>
<ais>
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I, pi, ivory, cacti
ride, wine, mile
pie, die
malign, sign
sigh, high, tight
island
indict
by, fly, why
dye, lye, rye, bye
eye
buy, guy
seismic
aisle
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
131
This is already thirteen different spellings for one sound, with very little in the
way of rules for choosing one spelling or another (note by, bye and buy, for
example, not to mention the colloquial bi, meaning ‘bisexual’). And this
number is in no way unusual. Try the sound /ei/, as in day. Here the first four
are ‘regular’ spellings.
<a>
<a…e>
<ai>
<ay>
<au>
<e>
<e…e>
<ei>
<ey>
<eig>
<eigh>
<ea>
<eh>
<es…e>
<ao>
atoll, acorn, potato
pane, hate, rake, fate
pain, hail, vain
pay, day, ray
gauge
elan, sauté
fete (for most speakers)
vein, veil
whey, they, grey
deign, reign
eight, weigh, sleigh
great, steak
eh
demesne (for some speakers)
gaol
This time we have at least fifteen spellings. Let’s try the sound /iː/, as in see.
About four of these are regular.
<i>
<ie>
<e>
<ee>
<ea>
<ei>
<ey>
<eo>
<es…e>
<ay>
<ae>
machine, libido, ski
field, piece
we, be, he, edict
see, bee, free, tree, week
weak, bean, bead, sea
seize, ceiling
key, geyser (for some speakers)
people
demesne (for some speakers)
quay
algae, Caesar
English spellings for vowel sounds are, shall we say, uninhibited. But it is not
only vowel sounds which exhibit such varied spelling. Look at the consonant
sound /k/, which occurs at each end of the words cook and kick.
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Why Do Languages Change?
<k>
<c>
<ck>
<q>
<qu>
<que>
<cq>
<cqu>
<cc>
<ch>
<kh>
king, key, cook, work, ankle, sky
cat, clam, sac, tic, music, acorn, scar
sick, tack, beckon
quite, queen, banquet
quiche, queue
torque, pique
acquire, acquaint
lacquer, racquet
accurate, soccer, tobacco
chorus, chlorine, chemist, ache, ochre, lichen, tech
khaki, khazi, khat, ankh
And, on top of this, the consonant sequence /ks/ is often spelled with the single
letter <x>, as in six and sex.
Given any speech sound of English, there are usually a number of ways of
rendering it in our peculiar spelling system. But we don’t only have many
spellings for one sound. We also have many sounds for one spelling. Consider
the sounds that can be spelled <ch>. There are at least three:
/tʃ/
/ʃ/
/k/
child, chase, rich, much
chef, champagne, creche, sachet
chorus, chemist (as above)
And Scottish varieties add a fourth, the distinctive Scottish consonant /x/, as in
loch and in many names, such as Auchtermuchty.
In fact, there is no English letter which infallibly spells the same sound, and
there is no English sound which is infallibly spelled in the same way. Even such
generally reliable letters as <m>, <z> and <f> fail us in the words mnemonic,
zeitgeist and of, and less obviously also in such words as summer, puzzle and
offer, each of which contains two instances of the letter but only one instance of
the sound.
Quite a few English words appear to be spelled in such eccentric ways that
they seem to have been designed as a kind of torture for weak spellers. There is
no principle of English spelling, however feeble and inconsistent, which can
predict such crazies as buoy, debt, one, have, people, autumn, two, eye, gauge,
doubt, come, sieve, ghost, yacht and who. And, for most of us, there is likewise
no rhyme or reason to cases like phlegm, knife, quay, buy, island, gym, aisle,
mortgage, listen, caught, brooch, cough, height, only, foreign, indict, pneumatic, sign, yolk and mnemonic.
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
133
It is dispiriting to discover that lemon does not rhyme with demon, that fever
does not rhyme with never, that geese does not rhyme with cheese, or that golf
does not rhyme with wolf (for most speakers, anyway). A capital letter makes all
the difference in polish and Polish. And we have the bizarre case of unionised,
which to most people suggests ‘organised into unions’, with one pronunciation,
but which to a chemist suggests ‘not ionised’, with a quite different
pronunciation.
And I haven’t even said much yet about our unpredictable stress. Quite often,
a single spelling must stand for two quite different words differing in the
placement of the stress. Typical examples are object and record:
I object to this proposal.
This is an interesting object.
I’d like to record this interview.
I’d like to keep a record of this interview.
Our spelling system gives us no help at all in keeping track of these unpredictable stresses, and we just have to work on context.
In some cases, these variable pronunciations drive us into the arms of the
hyphen, in a desperate attempt to avoid bewildering our readers:
She recovered the sofa. (‘She got the sofa back.’)
She re-covered the sofa. (‘She put a new cover on the sofa.’)
How did all this begin?
To begin with, our alphabet does not contain nearly enough letters. The English
version of the Roman alphabet has only 26 letters, but practically every accent
of English has 24 consonant sounds and somewhere between 14 and 20 vowel
sounds, for a total of between 38 and 44 distinctive sounds which in principle
ought to be spelled differently. A mere 26 letters is not nearly enough to do this
straightforwardly.
This shortage of letters can be explained as follows. The first consonant
letters were invented by speakers of the Semitic languages in the Near East, and
then the first complete alphabet – with vowel letters – was invented by the
ancient Greeks; even the Greek version was not quite good enough to write
Greek unambiguously. The Greeks passed a version of their alphabet to the
Etruscans, a non-Indo-European people of considerable cultural sophistication
who lived in Tuscany and the area around in the first millennium BC, who
passed it in turn to the Romans, who then found themselves looking at an
alphabet with just 19 letters: A B C D E F H I K L M N O P Q R S T U.
The Latin language of the Romans had only 15 consonant sounds, plus five
short vowels, five long vowels, and a few diphthongs, like the /au/ in laus ‘praise’,
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Why Do Languages Change?
which sounded very much like our word louse. The letter Q, which had been
invented by Semitic speakers to spell a consonant pronounced at the back of the
mouth found in their languages, was of no real use to the Greeks, who simply
dropped it, or to the Romans, who, out of respect for tradition, kept it anyway and
invented a job for it. The Romans decided that the sound sequence /kw/ would be
spelled QU in their language. This decision has been so carefully maintained by
Europeans for 2,000 years that nobody in Europe ever uses the letter Q except
before a U (except when transcribing languages like Arabic into Roman script).
This is an illustration of how conservative writing systems can be.
In the alphabet the Romans inherited, the letter C stood for the sound /g/,
while K stood for /k/. But the Romans, probably under the influence of the
language of their Etruscan teachers, avoided K and began using C for both /g/
and /k/, leaving K unemployed apart from one or two special words. This is why
Gaius Julius Caesar wrote his name C. IULIUS CAESAR (although the Caius
in Caius College Cambridge is pronounced the same as keys!). Eventually,
however, the inconvenience of this ridiculous decision struck home. Instead
of reviving the exiled letter K, however, the Romans chose in the second century
BC to invent a new letter by adding a stroke to the C, thus producing G.
During the same period, the Romans began to take over words and names
from the then more prestigious Greek. Since Greek had a few sounds absent
from Latin, the Romans borrowed three additional letters from the Greek
alphabet, X Y Z, and tacked these on to the end of their own alphabet, where
they were used mainly for spelling Greek words. With the newly invented G,
these borrowings brought the Roman alphabet to 23 letters.
The Latin consonants included one pronounced like English <w>, as in wet,
and another pronounced like English <y>, as in yes, represented in phonetic
script as /j/. Since their alphabet had no special letters for these sounds, the
Romans adopted a harmless-looking device, associating these consonants with
similar vowel sounds. They were already using the letter U to spell one of their
short vowels, the one similar to the vowel in English put, and the corresponding
long vowel, much as in English moon. But they adopted U to spell their
consonant /w/ as well. In the same way, they were using I to spell another
short vowel, roughly as in English bit, and the corresponding long vowel, as in
English beat, but they used the same letter as well to spell their consonant /j/.
As a result of these decisions, the chief Roman god, Jove, had a name which
was pronounced ‘yowis’ but written IOUIS; the Latin word for ‘wine’ was
pronounced ‘weenum’ but written UINUM; and the Latin word for ‘young’,
pronounced ‘yoo-weh-nis’ was written IUUENIS. (The Romans used only
capital letters; small letters did not achieve a fully independent status until
centuries after the fall of the Roman Empire.) But we have changed the original
Roman spelling of Latin for our own convenience, taking advantage of one
more feature of the Roman alphabet which I haven’t yet mentioned.
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
135
The letters I and U had two written forms apiece. The first could be written
either I or J, while the second could be written either U or V. The choice was
purely a matter of taste and convenience, and U was no more a different letter
from V than B is a different letter from b among us. This lack of distinction
remained the norm in Europe for many centuries after the Romans had disappeared, even after the sounds /j/ and /w/ had changed into quite different
consonant sounds in spoken Latin (roughly the initial sounds in English judge
and vine). In English, even up to the time of Shakespeare and beyond, we find
spellings like couer for modern cover and jt for modern it. Eventually, however,
in England and elsewhere, the custom grew up of writing the letters I and U for
the vowel sounds but J and V for the consonant sounds. This overdue distinction
gave our alphabet two extra letters, and we are now only one short of the modern
total of 26.
In fact, that 26th letter had been invented some centuries earlier; and this time
English played a large part in its creation.
Classical Latin had a consonant /w/, as we have just seen. Early on, however,
the pronunciation of this consonant changed substantially in popular speech,
from [w] to [v]. So, for example, the word vinum ‘wine’ changed its pronunciation from ‘weenum’ to ‘veenum’, and likewise for every other word in the
language which had contained a [w] sound. But then the speakers of English
adopted the Roman alphabet in order to write their language. And English has
and had a consonant /w/. Since the Latin letter V, or U, now stood for [v], the
English speakers had a problem: how should they spell their /w/?
The solution which the English finally settled on was a digraph: a sequence of
two letters to represent one sound. The digraph they picked was UU, or VV
(these two were the same, of course). So, for example, the word for ‘wine’ came
to be written ‘uuin’ or, equivalently, ‘vvin’. So familiar did this digraph become
that eventually readers, writers and finally printers began to think of it as a single
letter, different from all the other letters. And this is why the new letter bears the
name ‘double-U’, and why nobody was troubled that a double-U looks on the
page much more like a double-V.
With the creation of W, and with the separation of J and V from I and U, the
Roman alphabet reached its modern total of 26 letters. Or at least it did for
English speakers. Even though it would be decidedly useful to have an extra ten
or fifteen letters at their disposal, English speakers have resolutely refused to
extend the alphabet. In this determination English speakers are alone.
Every other European language which is written in the Roman alphabet copes
with the shortage of letters by using diacritics (marks which are added to letters
or symbols to show their distinctive pronunciation), resulting in symbols like é,
ç, ñ, ü, ø, å, ź, č and many others. Since this is still not enough, very many
languages further resort to digraphs (sequences of two letters) like ch, ai, nh, ll,
cz, tx, or even trigraphs and tetragraphs, like French oeu (as in coeur ‘heart’ and
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Why Do Languages Change?
oeuvre ‘work’) and German tsch (as in tschüss ‘see ya!’ and deutsch ‘German’).
English speakers refuse to make any systematic use of diacritics, and their use of
digraphs is decidedly half-hearted and inconsistent: child but chorus, bread but
bead, thing but thyme, and so on.
This willingness to modify the alphabet, often combined with a degree of
enthusiasm for modernising the spelling system, has left most European languages with a far more orderly spelling than English has. But there is a down
side: every written language has its own conventions, and these are often
unpredictably different from other people’s conventions.
Several years ago, a British friend of mine had to travel to the city of Århus in
Denmark. She caught a flight to Copenhagen, made her way to the bus station,
and looked for a bus to Århus. At the station she discovered that the bus stops
were arranged alphabetically by destination. So she joined the queue at the A
stop, and waited. And waited. After four hours, she finally asked someone for
help, only to discover that, in Danish, the letter Å is considered a distinct letter
from A, and it has its own place in the alphabet – right after Z. By the time she
learned this, she had missed the last bus to Århus.
Historical spelling
The single most important reason for peculiar spellings in English is a simple
one: we use historical spellings. Words aren’t spelled the way they are pronounced today, but instead are spelled the way they were pronounced hundreds
of years ago.
For example, until at least the sixteenth century (and much later in Scotland),
words like knife, knot and know really were pronounced with a /k/ sound before
the /n/. But for the last four to five centuries, most speakers have dropped the /k/
in every case. Nevertheless, the <kn> spelling was already conventional, and
has never been modernised to reflect the new pronunciation.
The same is true of words like write, wrong and wrestle. These words were
once pronounced with an initial /w/ sound, and again archaic spelling insists on
retaining the letter <w>, even though the /w/ in these words disappeared from
speech much earlier than the /k/ we have just been looking at, and long before
the time of Shakespeare, except in northern Scotland, where a naughty child is
often a vratch (wretch) and a carpenter a vricht (wright).
Words like night, light and fight were formerly pronounced with a consonant
just before the /t/, a consonant like the Scottish sound in loch, for which we use the
symbol /x/. Medieval English spelling used the letter sequence <gh> to represent
this sound. But then this consonant disappeared from English (except in parts of
Scotland, where it can still be heard with these words; all Scots maintain the
sound in place and personal names). Nevertheless, English spelling has simply
continued with the spellings that made sense eight hundred years ago.
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137
In a few cases, though, the sound spelled <gh> did not disappear. In a few
words like cough, rough and enough, something different happened. For lack of
evidence, we have had to reconstruct the events surrounding these words, but
here is what some scholars think happened. As the sound /x/ gradually disappeared from English speech, there remained, as always, a handful of conservative speakers who were still pronouncing it. When other speakers heard the
conservative speakers pronouncing cough and rough with the traditional consonant on the end, they didn’t recognise the noise, which was absent from their
own speech, and so they assumed that they must be hearing the sound /f/ – the
nearest sound they possessed to the vanishing consonant. As a result, many
people began pronouncing cough and rough with an /f/ sound at the end, and for
a few words this pronunciation gradually became established as the norm.
Our determination not to meddle with centuries-old spellings is also the
reason for paradoxical spellings like mood, good and blood. Four hundred
years ago, all these words rhymed, and so they all acquired similar spellings.
But very complicated developments in the pronunciation of the English vowels
between 1600 and 1700 meant that – in most accents, anyway – these words all
wound up with different vowels. But we still use the archaic spellings.
Our devotion to archaic historical spellings has left us with spellings like rite,
write, right and wright, all of which are now pronounced identically by most
English speakers, but spelled differently. Perhaps the outcome is an unnecessary
complication, but then again perhaps it is genuinely useful to have different
spellings for these words of very different meanings. The same has happened
with pairs like see and sea, and meat and meet, which are spelled differently
because they were formerly pronounced differently, and the English language
has simply kept their medieval spellings, as though as a reminder that a difference was once made that is now lost.
Dictionaries are littered with miscellaneous examples of the failure to keep
English spellings in step with our pronunciations. The word that used to be
spelled pratty has changed over the centuries; in this case the pronunciation has
moved all the way to pritty, but the spelling went only as far as pretty and then
became ‘fossilised’. Something similar has happened with the word English
itself, which used to be pronounced by English speakers the way the word still is
in German, with the initial vowel being the vowel in get.
But changes in pronunciation are not the only reason for eccentric spellings.
Norman French, Latin and Greek
In 1066 the French-speaking Normans conquered England, and their Norman
French became the prestige language of England for the next two or three
centuries. Thousands of Norman French words poured into English, where
they often displaced established native words.
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Why Do Languages Change?
When English speakers took French words into their language, they usually
tried at first to reproduce the French pronunciation as best they could. Over time,
however, as these French words became English words, their pronunciations
were usually adjusted to some degree towards the norms of English pronunciation, so that the words lost their obviously ‘foreign’ patina.
But the spellings were another matter. English speakers, in taking words from
Norman French, were strongly influenced by the conventional French spellings,
and they retained those spellings, at least in part, though not as a rule entirely.
This was true regardless of how they were pronouncing the words in English.
And this policy had consequences. One such was the extended use of single
letters to spell multiple sounds. For example, the Normans used the letter <c>, in
some but not all circumstances, to spell both the sound /k/ and the sound /s/. We
see these two functions in our words calendar and cellar, both of which were
taken from Norman French. The Normans likewise used the letter <g> to spell
two quite different sounds, and we faithfully adopted this practice too: both
values can be seen and heard in the word gauge, taken from Norman French.
The English devotion to Norman French spellings is also the reason for much
of the familiar confusion with <ie> and <ei>. Generations of English-speaking
schoolchildren have struggled to master the rules and the exceptions here, and to
remember to write seize but siege – both of these words coming, of course, from
Norman French, in which there really was a difference in pronunciation which
has not survived in English.
The pre-eminence of Norman French showed itself in other ways. Some of
the traditional spelling conventions of English were lost and replaced by new
ones based on French spelling or devised by Norman scribes. A splendid
example is the introduction into English of the letter sequence <qu>. English
had not previously used the letter <q> at all, and the sound sequence /kw/ had
always been spelled <cw>, as in cwic ‘quick, alive’ and cwen ‘queen’. (Strictly,
of course, it was the early versions of <w> which were used.) But the Normans
had faithfully preserved a version of the ancient Latin rule about writing <qu>
for /kw/, and English speakers retained it in the words taken from Norman
French, like question. Moreover, this new convention was extended to native
words, and so the above-mentioned English words were re-spelled quick and
queen, and likewise for all the other words in /kw/. As a result, English spelling
acquired the use of the letter <q>, and also the familiar spelling rule that <q> can
only occur before <u>.
This habit of retaining French spellings in English contributed to another
prominent feature of modern English spelling. This feature is called morphemic
spelling, and the label means that an element is spelled in essentially the same
way even when its pronunciation changes greatly as a result of the addition of
suffixes. For example, we took from Norman French such pairs as nature and
natural, medicine and medicinal, physic (an archaic word for ‘medicine’) and
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
139
physician, oblige and obligation, and our decisions about how to spell these
pairs have made morphemic spelling the norm in the elevated and technical part
of English vocabulary. Compare the quite different policy followed in the native
English part of the vocabulary, where the words are typically so short that
morphemic spelling would be hard to maintain: deep/depth; gold/gild; bake/
batch; long/length; and so on.
In fact, the impact of Norman French on English spelling was really quite
profound, though not all of the consequences involved complications. For
example, English had lacked the consonant /v/ as a completely separate sound
(a phoneme) until it was acquired in dozens of French words like virtue, vowel,
virgin, value and very, and the choice of a suitable spelling was in this case
eminently reasonable. But we also acquired another consonant sound from
Norman French, this time somewhat indirectly, and this one causes problems.
The rarest consonant sound in English is the one that linguists represent as /ʒ/,
called ‘long z’ or simply ‘ezh’. This sound occurs only in words taken from
other languages, and mostly in words taken from Norman French. It occurs in
the middle of measure, pleasure, leisure, seizure, azure, illusion, vision, closure,
among others (although these words don’t actually have /ʒ/ in French: original
/zj/ changed to /ʒ/). We have never managed to come up with a consistent way
of spelling this sound, and the more recent addition of further words from
modern French, like rouge and genre, and words from Russian, such as
Zhivago, has not helped.
But Norman French is not the only language which has contributed to our
generally complicated spelling. Around the fifteenth century, English speakers
began taking large numbers of words into the language directly from Classical
Latin. They did this largely in order to provide the elevated and technical terms
in which they judged English to be deficient. Such now-familiar words as
malleable, permanent, potent, investigation, globe, intermission, compulsion,
introduction, universal and hundreds more were self-consciously extracted
from the pages of the Latin authors and inserted into texts written in English.
Whatever pronunciation was settled on, these words were adopted with the
closest approximation to the Latin spelling that could be accommodated.
Usually the Latin ending had to be suppressed, since English no longer had a
comparable set of endings, but otherwise the Latin spellings were preserved
intact.
In large measure, these Latin words reinforced the spelling conventions
already introduced from French. In some respects, though, the Latin words
brought further conventions with them. For example, because of their differing
Latin sources, English formerly used the spellings direction for one word but
connexion for another. American English abandoned the distinction as pointless
long ago, and has for generations written -ection uniformly for both words; in
Britain, the same change has occurred only in the last few years.
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Why Do Languages Change?
However, given the earlier impact of French words and practice, the impact of
Latin words on English spelling was much less dramatic than that of another
classical language.
English-speaking writers had earlier added to English a number of words of
Classical Greek origin, mostly words which had been taken from Greek into
Latin and hence were borrowed as Latin words (or in a Latin form). But
eventually it came to seem reasonable to begin taking over words directly
from Classical Greek. This was particularly done in order to fulfil a need for
new technical terms in a variety of disciplines, a practice still active today. But
we seldom bother to import entire words from Classical Greek, since the ancient
Greeks had little of the technology we now take for granted. Instead we
assemble a set of building blocks, in the form of stems extracted from Greek,
and use these to construct new technical terms as we need them.
Among those building blocks are such items as electro- ‘electricity’, zo‘animal’, biblio- ‘book’, bio- ‘life’, astro- ‘star’, and thermo- ‘heat’ (as prefixes)
and -logy ‘study’, -phile ‘lover’, -mania ‘excessive desire’, -graphy ‘writing’
and -pathy ‘disorder’ (as suffixes). From this large set of building blocks,
technical terms of any required meanings can be manufactured on the spot,
such as biology ‘life-study’. Where necessary, additional Greek elements can be
added, as in hyperthermophile ‘high-heat-lover’, a recently coined term for an
organism that flourishes at temperatures near the boiling point of water.
The Greek forms had somehow to be converted into our Roman letters. For
this purpose, we have long used a conventional system. Each Greek letter is
represented consistently by one or two of our letters. So, for example, Greek mu
(μ) and nu (ν) are simply rendered as <m> and <n>, while Greek phi (φ) and chi
(χ) are rendered as <ph> and <ch>, and Greek upsilon (ʊ) is rendered as <y>
(except, of course, with many of these letters in scientific contexts). This set of
equivalents is followed religiously.
It is this system which produces the rather distinctive appearance of words of
Greek origin, generally spelled with otherwise unusual combinations like <ph>,
<ch>, <ps>, <y> and <rh>. Typical examples are psychology, thermodynamics,
astrophysics, nymphomania and tracheostomy. The spelling of these items is
something of a law unto itself, and it pays no particular attention to any other
spelling conventions. Only in these Greek-derived words do we normally use
<ph> to spell the sound /f/, and only in these words do we write <ps-> or <pn->
at the beginning of a word just to spell what we pronounce as /s/ or as /n/, as in
psychopath and pneumonia. And, for the most part, it is only in these words that
we find the sound /m/ spelled <gm>, as in phlegm and paradigm.
An unusual example of this process is ptarmigan, the name given to the high
mountain grouse found in Scotland. This word is actually derived from Gaelic
tarmachan ‘grouse’. But sometime in the eighteenth century someone with a
classical education connected the word to the Greek root ptero- (as in
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
141
pterodactyl – ‘wing finger’), meaning ‘wing’, probably because he felt that
Greek was much more impressive than Gaelic (or because he believed, as some
Romantics did at the time, that Gaelic was actually a form of Greek: something
you could only think if you didn’t know both).
These Greek words are now overwhelmingly dominant in our technical
vocabulary, including medical terminology, and every moderately literate user
of English is acquainted with the highly distinctive appearance of words like
synaesthesia, photosynthesis, hyperkinetic and chromatography.
Between them, Latin and Greek have contributed one very prominent set of
variable and often confused spellings to English. Latin had a pair of diphthongs
/ae/ and /oe/, and Greek had a similar pair, /ai/ and /oi/, which are conventionally
rendered in Latin and in English as <ae> and <oe>. These diphthongs are
always retained in English in the spelling of proper names, such as Latin
Caesar and Greek Oedipus. But, in words which are not names, their treatment
is positively chaotic: we are not consistent in our decisions; the British and the
Americans often make different decisions; and we sometimes change our minds.
The study of fossils is palaeontology in Britain but paleontology in the USA.
Child medicine is paediatrics in Britain but pediatrics in the States. But the
former British encyclopaedia, from the same Greek stem (paidos ‘child’), has
now mostly given way to encyclopedia, the form always preferred in American
English. Probably nobody writes oecumenical for ecumenical, and absolutely
nobody writes oeconomics for economics, even though the Greek source has the
diphthong (it is oikos ‘household’).
Latin foetidus gives US fetid; the British form used to be foetid, but fetid is
now generally preferred in Britain. Apparently by some outright confusion,
Latin fetus, which gives American fetus, produced the bizarre form foetus in
Britain for many years, though this erroneous form is now strongly disfavoured,
and it is rejected in British technical use.
Words from the rest of the world
English speakers have never tired of borrowing words from other people’s
languages, and they have never changed their policy for writing them. When
a word is taken from a language written in the Roman alphabet, English
speakers practically always keep the original spelling, regardless of how they
pronounce the word.
This policy is the reason for the unusual spellings in many borrowed words;
some examples are presented in Table 7.1. At least, this is what happens when
we borrow the word from the written language. Sometimes we take words
instead from the spoken language, in which case the original spelling is ignored.
For example, the American English word hoosegow ‘jail’, made famous by any
number of Hollywood westerns, was taken from Mexican Spanish juzgado
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Table 7.1 Some ‘foreign’ words in English
Italian
cello
linguini
pizza
Icelandic
geyser
French
champagne
coup
beret
soupçon
bivouac
Basque (via Spanish)
jai alai
Norwegian
ski
German
sauerkraut
blitzkrieg
angst
flak
Spanish
paella
chorizo
sangria
Portuguese
auto-da-fé
Polish
zloty
Afrikaans
trek
Dutch (although the Dutch
originals are spelled differently)
gherkin
yacht
gherkin
yacht
Welsh
corgi
Finnish
sauna
‘courthouse’; since it was borrowed by ear, the Spanish spelling was ignored,
and English speakers simply spelled the word the way it sounded. (In small
western towns, the courthouse and the jail were usually in the same building.)
And the American slang term capeesh? ‘understand?’ was taken orally from an
unwritten local dialect of Italian, probably Sicilian; the written Italian form is
capisce.
Most of our borrowings from Irish have been taken over orally, often via
bilingual speakers. Only a handful of Irish words have come into English
through writing, and these retain their Irish spellings, like Dáil (the Irish
lower house of parliament) and Taoiseach (the Irish prime minister). More
typical borrowings, though, are words like banshee, from Irish bean sídhe,
leprechaun, from Irish leipreachán, and shamrock, from Irish seamróg. The
same is true for Scottish Gaelic words.
When words are borrowed from languages that are written in something other
than the Roman alphabet, more work is required. In principle, we have a system
for converting other important scripts into our Roman letters, but in practice we
do not always stick to our systems, and anyway those systems sometimes change.
For example, we have a system for converting words and names from the
Russian Cyrillic alphabet. This system is based on the Russian spelling, and not
on the Russian pronunciation, which is why we usually spell Russian names the
way we spell Gorbachev, even though something like Gorbachof would represent the pronunciation more directly. But, of course, we are not consistent. The
author of The Cherry Orchard and the composer of the Nutcracker both
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
143
pronounced their surnames with the same initial consonant, and they both
spelled their surnames with the same initial letter in Cyrillic, and yet we write
Chekhov for the first but Tchaikovsky for the second, so regularly that now the
alternative spellings Tchekhov and Chaikovsky look wrong to many of us. It is
likely that the composer’s name was affected by the French spelling conventions of the musical culture of the time; why this has persisted is a mystery,
however. In any event, continuing indecision about how to write borshch, or
borsht, or borsch, or whatever, shows that we are far from having a consistent
policy for converting Russian words.
For Japanese, there are several systems available for spelling words and
names taken from the language, but in practice we almost always prefer the
Hepburn system (a romanisation system in use in Japan from the 1870s on),
which gives us such now-familiar spellings as sushi, tsunami and Fuji, even
though professional linguists generally prefer the linguistically more sophisticated Yale system (a romanisation system worked out in the 1940s), in which
the same words come out as susi, tunami and Huzi. Hepburn has the advantage
for English speakers of representing the Japanese pronunciation more directly
from the point of view of English phonology, though in practice we usually
don’t bother with the Japanese long vowels, and we write, for example, sumo
where strict Hepburn would have suumo.
For Mandarin Chinese, there are at least half a dozen systems on the market
for converting Chinese words and names into our alphabet. Until the 1960s, the
Wade-Giles system was almost universal in the English-speaking world, but
then, partly at the request of the Chinese government, we switched abruptly to a
quite different system, Pinyin, preferred by the Chinese authorities. It was this
shift that suddenly altered the familiar forms of so many Chinese names, as Mao
Tse-Tung became Mao Zedong and Peking became Beijing.
But the great complication with Chinese words in English is that most of
them are not taken from Mandarin, the principal and official language of China,
but rather from one or another of the several southern Chinese languages. (The
label ‘Chinese’ covers at least seven quite distinct languages, all of them
mutually incomprehensible; for historical reasons, these are referred to as
‘dialects’.) The people who run Chinese restaurants are practically always
speakers of these southern languages, and thus familiar Chinese words like
dim sum and wok are not in fact taken from Mandarin Chinese at all, and the
Pinyin system is of no use in representing them. We just have to do the best we
can in putting them into English (or, indeed, any language).
Another language for which a consistent system of transcription does not
seem to have been achieved is Modern Greek. Names of Greek items of food
and drink are put into English in a way that is somewhat hit-or-miss. While we
mostly seem to agree on ouzo and moussaka, some of us write tzatziki while
others prefer tsatsiki, and other words exhibit similar fluctuation.
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Why Do Languages Change?
With Arabic, the regional varieties of that language differ so greatly from one
another that sometimes they are not even mutually comprehensible, and indeed
by some standards Arabic is really several distinct languages. The pronunciation of words and names varies enormously from place to place, and the traditional standard variety of Arabic, called ‘Classical Arabic’, does not correspond
at all well to anybody’s speech. This is why the Libyan leader’s surname
appears variously in English as Gaddafy or as Qadhafy, or something else,
while his given name likewise turns up as Muammar or as Moamer, or something else.
With languages which are not normally written at all, or which were not written
at the time English speakers took words from them, the resulting forms of
borrowed English words may be a little unpredictable. English-speaking settlers
in North America, in Australia, in New Zealand and elsewhere tried to pick up the
local names of new objects and then tried to put these into English in an ad hoc
way. Sometimes the results were words that don’t look wholly un-English, like
woodchuck and squash (the vegetable), but other examples, like kiwi, kangaroo
and canoe, are decidedly peculiar in form. Vowel-rich Hawaiian has given us an
especially large number of words that resemble few others: poi (a vegetable
foodstuff), luau (a feast), nene (a goose), pahoehoe (a type of lava), lei (a garland
of flowers), lanai (a verandah), and that great favourite of Scrabble™-players
everywhere, aa (another type of lava).
Some confusions, oddities and blunders
As we briefly saw in the last chapter, the standardisation of English spelling has
been a long, slow, gradual process, extending over centuries, and not generally
achieved before the nineteenth century. Let’s look here at the word potato.
This word was taken into English in the sixteenth century, via Spanish from
the native American language Taino. In the sixteenth century, we find all of the
following spellings in use in English: botata, batata, battata, potato, potaton,
potade, patata, potatoe and the bizarre potatus, a confused Latinism. By the
seventeenth century, only some of these were still in use, but then we find the
further spellings partato, potado, potata, pottato and puttato. By the eighteenth
century, this variation had been narrowed down to just three choices: potato,
patata and potatoe. By the nineteenth century, only potato and potatoe were still
in the running. The frequency of this second choice is one reason that we require
the plural form potatoes today, even though we have finally settled on the
singular form potato.
And this example brings us to another famous uncertainty about English
spelling: when a word ends in -o, does it form its plural with -os or with -oes?
As everyone knows, this is a chaotic matter. We have pianos but torpedoes, and
solos but heroes.
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
145
Mostly, this is yet another accident. Just as the name of the vegetable was
commonly spelled potatoe until the nineteenth century, the word now spelled
hero was commonly spelled heroe until not so long ago. Such spellings helped
to promote the plural forms potatoes and heroes, and these plurals in -oes were
then extended to other words – for example, to tomatoes, which was usually
tomatos in the eighteenth century.
Thanks to the vacillation and confusion of the past, English speakers have
now managed to manoeuvre themselves into a position in which hardly anybody feels confident about spelling the plurals of these words. Even if most of
them can manage to spell the singular forms, and thus to avoid the obloquy
which befell the former American politician Dan Quayle when he embarrassingly offered potatoe, not so many of them feel sure about cargo(e)s, fresco(e)s,
mosquito(e)s and veto(e)s.
Some English spellings are there for no very good reason. For example,
delight, a word taken from Norman French, was originally spelled delit, but in
the sixteenth century it came under the spell of all those native English words
like light and night, and so it acquired a completely pointless <gh>.
Likewise, should and would contain a now-mysterious <l> because these
words were once only the past-tense forms of shall and will, and they really did
contain the sound /l/ at one time. But could began life as the past tense of can; it
was never pronounced with the sound /l/, and we now spell it with an <l> merely
because of the influence of should and would.
Some of our strange spellings exist for reasons that are very close to downright silly. A good example is the pair debt and doubt, both of which contain an
utterly mysterious <b>. Why is that <b> there? Well, both these words were
taken into English from Old French. The Old French forms were dette and
doute, and originally we took them into English in the spellings dette (or
sometimes det) for the first, and dout for the second. But then something strange
happened. The two French words are descended from Latin debita, the plural of
debitum ‘that which is owed’, and from dubitum ‘doubt’. In the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries, a few writers of English reached the remarkable conclusion
that it would be an excellent idea to insert a silent letter <b> into the spellings of
these two words in order to remind all of us, ever so helpfully, of their remote
Latin origins. Like many other bad ideas, this one prospered, and debt and doubt
have been spelled with their pointless <b>s ever since.
Much the same thing happened with reign. This word, of French origin, was
formerly spelled reyne. But the ultimate Latin source is the word regnum: again
a few pedants decided that the word had to be spelled with a useless <g>.
Yet another example is receipt. The Old French form was receite, and the
English form was at first about the same. But the Latin source of the French
word was recepta, and so once again somebody decided, doubtless on the
grounds of prestige, that the English word would profit from a <p> in its
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Why Do Languages Change?
spelling. In the nineteenth century, this unhelpful spelling led to some confusion, as many writers got the word tangled up with recipe, a word which is
distantly related to the first one but actually pronounced with a /p/ in it. Very
likely you have seen receipt written where recipe was intended, though this
confusion is less common now than it used to be.
As you can probably guess indict is one more example. This used to be
spelled indite, reasonably enough, but the form of the Latin source, indicere,
had the now predictable effect on our ancestors.
We are lucky that this business never went beyond a handful of words. It
could have been a lot worse. After all, age derives via French from Latin aetas,
but self-appointed linguistic arbiters have never decreed that we should spell the
word atge, or something equally sensible. And, of course, our rage derives from
Latin rabies, which you will recognise in another connection: rabge, anyone?
It is not only Latin which has had some strange effects on our spelling. When
the Germans discovered a new metal and named it Zink, the word was promptly
taken into English. But how was it to be spelled? Every other rhyming word in
the language is spelled <-ink>: sink, blink, ink, stink, brink, mink, slink, think,
pink and so on. Naturally, therefore, the metal was spelled zink, though some
independent souls wrote the word zinke or zinck on occasion. But then somebody noticed that the French had settled on the spelling zinc, and of course
anything the French do is elegant by definition, and so the spelling was altered
to the unique zinc.
Isle was taken over bodily from Old French, where it had the same spelling,
reflecting its origin in Latin insula. But then this borrowed word began to cause
trouble. The native English word for the same thing used to be iland, as in John
Donne’s famous line No man is an iland. Since isle had an <s> in it, sixteenthand seventeenth-century English speakers decided that so should iland, and the
spelling of this was arbitrarily changed to island. In fact, this went so far that
another wholly unrelated word got caught up in it. That word, taken from Old
French, meaning the central part of a church, had previously been spelled aile,
but the mere resemblance in sound was enough to bring about a change in
spelling to aisle, the unlikely form we are stuck with today.
In some cases, the reason for a particularly eccentric spelling is simply
mysterious. A good example is build. Now, by all history, logic and parallel,
this word ought to be spelled bild. And this is precisely the spelling that was used,
until the fifteenth century and the introduction of printing to England. For reasons
that are absolutely unfathomable, the first English printer, William Caxton, chose
to spell this word as buyld. In the modified version build, this impenetrable
spelling has therefore become universal, and nobody has the faintest idea why.
Caxton is also the culprit in the spelling of ghost. This used to be spelled gost,
just like gold. But Caxton preferred the spelling ghost, with a useless <h>.
Practically all reference sources propose that Caxton did this because the related
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
147
word was written gheest in Dutch – and Caxton had worked for a while in the
Netherlands.
We have room for one last example of such tampering. There used to be a
word spelled rime, applied to poetry; a few people still prefer this spelling today.
But several centuries ago this word came under the spell of the unrelated word
rhythm, of Greek origin, and so it acquired the bizarre spelling rhyme, which is
the norm today.
Finally, let’s turn our attention to a small set of words which share a
peculiarity. Among them are come, some, son, among, honey, money, monkey,
love and glove. What is strange about these words is that they all contain a vowel
sound which is normally spelled with a U in English, as in cut and buck, but in
all of them this vowel is spelled with the letter O. How did this happen? After
all, the Old English spellings were quite different: sum for some, sunu for son,
lufu for love, and so on.
The explanation, unexpectedly, involves medieval handwriting. In the
Middle Ages, European handwriting was decidedly ‘spiky’ by our standards.
Figure 7.1, for example, shows what a certain English word would have looked
like in a typical medieval hand. It is difficult to make out the word because the
lower-case versions of the letters <i u n m> (and also <v>, which at the time was
not distinguished from <u>) were all produced with a series of angular strokes –
one, two or three. When two or three of these letters happened to occur in
sequence, the result typically looked like the example in Figure 7.1. The word is
in fact ‘mummy’.
Medieval readers found such outcomes just as vexing as we do, and various
steps were taken to deal with them. One move was to mark out the small letter
<i> by placing a dot above it – a custom which we still follow today, even
though it no longer serves any purpose (except when writing Turkish). In the
same vein, it became customary to place a little curve over a <u>. This custom
has not survived in the English-speaking world, though you can still see it in
some German handwriting today, to avoid confusion with <n>.
Figure 7.1 A mystery word
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Why Do Languages Change?
But in England, starting from the thirteenth century, writers came up with one
further device. When a <u> came next to one of the other troublesome letters,
then very often the writer replaced the <u> with a nice round <o> – which stood
out clearly on the page in the middle of the spikes. And so, even after English
speakers abandoned spiky handwriting in favour of the smoothly rounded styles
most of us prefer today, we kept the quaint spellings with <o> in quite a few of
these words, because people were used to them by then.
So, every time you type the strange spelling come or love into your keyboard,
you are doing so because some medieval scribes decided to do it in the hope of
making their angular hands a little more legible.
A recent complication
At the beginning of the twentieth century, English spelling was already about as
eccentric as any spelling on earth. But since that time new complications have
been built upon these complications.
In the last few decades, we have become inordinately fond of creating new
English words by a variety of procedures which were formerly rare to nonexistent. We have become especially fond of clipping, the process which gives
us words like bra (from brassière), bi (from bisexual), tache (from moustache),
bus (from omnibus) and croc (from crocodile). The resulting words often have
orthographic forms which are rather peculiar, even by the relaxed standards of
English. There are not so many established words which are spelled like bi, or
like recce (a British word for reconnaissance or reconnoitre), or like deli, or flu,
or prof, or veg, or tech, or the now little-used hi-fi, or so many others in this vein.
Sometimes clipping bumps into the existing peculiarities of our spelling. The
word busy has a weird spelling which hardly suggests a rhyme with dizzy. The
weirdness is retained in its derivative business, and therefore in the compound show
business. This compound is commonly clipped, but apparently nobody considers
that the orthographic form show bus is in any way tolerable, and so we have chosen
to write the result as show biz, giving us yet another unusual written form.
And it is not only clipping that gives us orthographically odd forms. English
spelling now make considerable use of several other non-traditional devices for
coining new words, devices which give us such orthographically unusual items as
NASDAQ (the name of the stock market), op ed (the page opposite the editorial
page in a newspaper) and OD (meaning ‘overdose’). When these things are
inflected, and most especially when they are used as verbs, then all sorts of
awkward outcomes may occur, as in He OD’d on drugs, which is routine in
speech but not so easy to write. In the USA, Federal Express is the name of a
parcel delivery service, commonly clipped to FedEx. This too can be used as a
verb, producing yet other surprising looking forms: I FedExed them the samples.
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
149
All this activity is having noticeable consequences for the written form of
English. Let’s look briefly at just one development.
In the year 1900, there was perhaps no English word spelled with the letter
<v> at the end, save only for the ethnic label Slav. And even this one was a
recent addition to the language. For centuries, the word had been spelled Sclave
or Slave; the spelling Slav was first recorded only in 1866, and it did not become
usual until late in the nineteenth century.
Otherwise, words ending in the sound /v/ were spelled with <ve>. This was
true even in cases like give, live and have, where the presence of the final <e>
violates a familiar rule of our spelling: compare hive, dive and cave, and note
cases like bit and bite, whit and white, hat and hate. The sole exception was the
grammatical word of, whose spelling is wholly unsystematic and without parallel.
But, in the early years of the twentieth century, word-final <v> began to creep
slowly into English spelling. In 1913, we find the first printed example of lav as
a clipped form of lavatory. This was followed in 1920 by rev as a verb, as in He
revved the engine. The American word for a fighting knife was recorded as shive
in 1915, but from 1926 it was usually written shiv, its modern form. The British
word spiv for a crooked businessman in flashy clothes is recorded from 1934.
For the famous Cockney term of address, gov, I have been unable to locate a first
attestation, but the word does not appear to be recorded very early.
Bit by bit, then, words with final <v> have been percolating into our
dictionaries. Perhaps this development has been aided by the familiar forms
of several given names: Viv for Vivian, Bev for Beverly, Trev for Trevor, and so
on. Perhaps the growing use in English of words and names from other
languages, like the Hebrew mazel tov ‘good luck’, Liv Ullmann, the
Norwegian actress, and Kapil Dev, the Indian cricketer, has smoothed the way
a little bit. Perhaps even opera chipped in, since the two short operas Cavalleria
Rusticana and Pagliacci, which are commonly performed together, are affectionately known to opera buffs as Cav and Pag.
Whatever the reason, English speakers no longer seem to object to word-final
<v>. In Britain, diesel oil for road vehicles is called derv, originally from dieselengined road vehicle. The board game Trivial Pursuit™ is known to its fans as
Triv. In the city of Brighton, where I live, our most celebrated building, the
Royal Pavilion, is sometimes called simply the Pav. Whatever has happened,
word-final <v>, which not so long ago was unknown and impossible in English,
is no longer even especially rare.
Why don’t English speakers reform their spelling?
Despite its obvious eccentricity, there are a number of reasons why English
spelling reform is unlikely.
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Why Do Languages Change?
First, there exists a colossal amount of material written in English, both on
paper and now on the Internet, and the volume of that material grows substantially every day. If we were to change our spelling greatly, then future generations who had learned only the reformed spelling would find all this existing
material far more difficult to read and use. In practice, they would have to learn
our old system as well as their new one – and this is not progress.
Second, we human beings are conservative creatures, and nowhere is our
conservative nature more prominent than in language matters. Once you have
spent years painfully mastering the intricacies of the English standard spelling
system, you are hardly likely to take kindly to someone who tells you that you
should abandon the spellings you have sweated blood to master, and learn a
whole load of ignorant-looking new spellings.
Crazy as these spellings are, would you really like now to abandon debt and
doubt in favour if det and dout? Or, if these don’t bother you, what do you think
about changing honest to onest? Or bread to bred? Or scythe to sithe? Or
phlegm to flem?
How about changing eye to i? Or how about changing buy to by? Or eight to
ate? Or torque to tork? No double-takes when you see Winston Churchill’s
famous words written as We will fite them on the beeches? Well, you may or may
not take a benign view of such a rearrangement of English spelling, although I’d
guess that you probably hate the very idea. Most people do. Exasperating as
English spelling is, once we have finally learned it, most of us cannot even
contemplate any significant fiddling with it. And, even if you are a rare person
who finds spelling reform appealing, what do you suppose will happen if you
start writing your work in a reformed spelling which other people refuse to
accept? Do you think you’ll make a good impression on them by writing Pleez
retern the form befor the dedline? I’m sure you won’t.
So, there are substantial reasons why a reform of the English spelling system
is most unlikely to be carried out, now or ever. But by far the most important
reason we cannot rationalise English spelling is this: we do not all pronounce
the language in the same way. So, a reformed spelling that matched your
pronunciation would not match mine at all well.
A few years ago, a British journalist, reflecting on chaotic English spelling,
proposed an improvement. ‘Let’s re-spell thought as thort ’, she suggested,
‘because that’s the way it’s pronounced.’ She had a typical southeasternEngland accent, and, in the southeast of England, court is pronounced just
like caught, and short does indeed rhyme perfectly with both of them. So, if you
have this kind of accent, re-spelling thought as thort makes a good deal of sense.
But not every English speaker has this kind of accent. No more than about 3
per cent of native speakers of English come from the southeast of England, and
the other 97 per cent of speakers do not speak with the same kind of accent – in
other words, they do not use the same kind of pronunciation. For example, in
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
151
Table 7.2 Some pairs of English words
(a) court/caught
(c) farther/father
(e) horse/hoarse
(g) dew/do
(i) buck/book
(k) hair/air
(m) threw/through
(o) higher/hire
(q) missile/missal
(b) cot/caught
(d) whine/wine
(f) poor/pour
(h) pull/pool
(j) toe/tow
(l) three/free
(n) stir/stare
(p) marry/merry/Mary
(r) ant/aunt
my American accent, court sounds completely different from caught, and the
same is true in all the accents of Canada, Scotland and Ireland, as well as in the
accents of the southwest of England, in some Caribbean accents, and elsewhere.
For about 80 per cent of the world’s native speakers of English, thort would be a
much crazier spelling of the word than is the conventional spelling thought.
And the same is true for almost any other change you might propose to improve
our mysterious spelling. Table 7.2 shows a list of pairs of English words, with an
interesting property. For each pair of words, the two words are pronounced
identically by some native speakers of English, but differently by other native
speakers. (One set has three words, usually pronounced all identically or all differently, though I have met one speaker who pronounced two the same but the third
differently.) Take a look at the list, and decide in each case whether you pronounce
the words identically or differently. There are no right or wrong answers here, of
course: the answers you give will merely reflect the kind of accent you have.
You may be surprised to learn that some people make a distinction you don’t
make, or fail to make one you do make, but there is no doubting the facts: all of
these pairs are pronounced identically by some speakers but differently by
others. Moreover, these pairs are not oddities: each pair in fact represents two
whole classes of English words. For example, pair (d) stands also for the other
pairs like where and wear, which and witch, whales and Wales, whether and
weather, wheel and weal, whet and wet, whirled and world, and others. And
there is more, much more. Table 7.3 provides another list of pairs of words. For
each pair, the words are perfect rhymes for some native speakers of English, but
do not rhyme at all for other native speakers.
In all likelihood, it is too late to reform English spelling in any very sensible
way. We might, if we liked, adjust a few of the really eccentric spellings that
match no one’s pronunciation. We could change debt to det, and bread to bred,
and buoy to boy, and people to peeple. But it is hardly likely that the elimination
of a few dozen oddities would be enough to overcome the howls of outrage from
those who cannot bear to see our established spellings tampered with. Once you
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Why Do Languages Change?
Table 7.3 Some more pairs
(a) singer/finger
(c) granary/tannery
(e) fertile/turtle
(g) garage/carriage
(i) mobile/global
(k) evolution/revolution
(m) one/bun
(o) codify/modify
(b) harass/embarrass
(d) felony/miscellany
(f) vagary/fairy
(h) says/rays
(j) often/soften
(l) beta/cheetah
(n) never/sever
(p) lever/fever
have learned the erratic spelling people, then the orderly and regular peeple just
looks ignorant and wrong, and that’s the end of it – for most of us.
Meanwhile, of course, our pronunciation, like every aspect of English,
continues to change. My young niece’s pronunciation of the word how sounds
very little like my pronunciation of the same word but much more like my
pronunciation of Hugh. So, even if we could agree on a spelling that worked
well this year, that same spelling might after a while be as ridiculous-looking as
is our spelling of knight – which at one time made perfect sense.
It appears, therefore, that we are drifting slowly towards a writing system
rather like the one the Chinese use. In the Chinese script, there is no attempt to
write down the pronunciation of a word at all. Instead, each individual word is
conventionally represented by an arbitrary set of symbols, and learning to be
literate in Chinese means learning the particular set of symbols associated with
every word in the language. (It is true that the Chinese characters historically
included an element of pronunciation, and to some extent that historical information is still detectable, but it does not play a crucial role in Chinese writing.)
In our case, we will simply have to learn that squiggles like reign and missile
and doubt stand for particular words with particular meanings, and we will stop
worrying about how those words are pronounced or whether they do or do not
rhyme with any other words. Those speakers in England for whom tyre and
tower are both pronounced like tar (and also ta ‘thanks’) will just have to master
the squiggles required for each of the four meanings, much as Chinese speakers
have to learn the different squiggles that represent words of identical pronunciation but different meanings.
Textspeak
As a postscript, I must add that a form of reformed English spelling has
appeared in recent years: textspeak. This combination of abbreviations (u
‘you’), quasi-phonetic spellings (luv ‘love’) and rebuses (gr8 ‘great’) which
was produced by the new technology of SMS-texting in the late 1990s quickly
Why is English spelling so eccentric?
153
developed rules of its own – a statement which might come as something of a
surprise to its critics, many of whom seem to see its use as evidence that the
barbarians are at the gates. A spelling like 4 for ‘for’, for instance, makes sense
for some speakers of English, but not all: for most Scots, for instance, for and
four are not homophones. Yet Scottish texters still use this convention. It’s too
early to say how far textspeak will spread, but it’s very likely to be here to stay.
Conclusion
Given the diversity of eccentricity found in the English spelling ‘system’, a
conclusion is very difficult to reach. What we can say, however, is that the
present mess is the result of the engagement of the language’s speakers with the
language across at least six centuries. To a historical linguist this is, of course,
very attractive: unlike most other languages, English as it is written today acts as
a witness to the linguistic habits of 500 years ago. At the same time, Latinate or
pretentious spellings tell us a great deal about social attitudes over the modern
period, just as similar processes provide us with understandings of these
attitudes now. The English spelling system is a linguistic treasure trove; that
doesn’t make it any less maddening, however.
In the next chapter we will move far from these highly detailed concerns,
instead concentrating on when languages begin and what age they are.
8
Which is the oldest language?
A common question
I belong to the panel of an Internet service which offers to answer questions on
language and languages. One of the questions we receive most often is: ‘Which
is the oldest language?’ Sometimes we get variations on this theme. ‘Is Hebrew
the oldest language?’ ‘Is Sanskrit the oldest language?’ ‘Is French older than
English?’ ‘Is it true that Basque is the oldest language in Europe?’ Clearly there
is a great deal of interest in these matters. But it is actually very difficult to find
this answered in a clear but scholarly way. In this chapter I’ll try to do so. But
let’s begin with another question, one which is just about as basic as anything
can be in the study of languages.
Where do languages come from?
We need to ask this question in order to talk about the ages of languages. You
have a mother tongue, which you learned in early childhood. That mother
tongue may be English, or it may be something else: this makes no difference.
Where did you get your mother tongue from?
Very likely you don’t remember all that much about the early stages of
acquiring your first language, but fortunately a considerable number of linguists
have studied children learning their mother tongues, and we now know a great
deal about what happens. The answer is not very surprising: you learn your first
language from people who already know it, or who at least know a little more
than you. You learn it from your parents, of course, but you also learn a great
deal from friends, neighbours and siblings who are a few years older than you
and who know just a bit more language than you do. This is not a startling
statement.
But consider the consequences: where does everybody get that first language
from? Well, everybody gets it in the same way you did: by learning it from
people who already know it. That’s how your parents learned their mother
tongue, and that’s how your grandparents learned theirs, and your greatgrandparents, and your great-great-grandparents, and so on. Generations ago,
tens of generations ago, hundreds of generations ago, children were learning
their mother tongue from older people who already knew it.
154
Which is the oldest language?
155
How else can a child learn a language? Where else can a child turn in order to
learn a first language other than to somebody who already knows it? In fact,
there are a few other possibilities, but they are neither obvious nor usual, and we
will leave them until the end of this chapter. For now, I can safely say that
normally – and by ‘normally’ I mean in the huge, vast, overwhelming majority
of cases – every child learns its first language in the same way you did: by
learning it from people who already know it.
So, let’s suppose your first language is English. You learned English in
childhood from older people who already knew English. Those people had
already learned English in their own childhoods from still older people who
already knew it, and those still older people had likewise learned English in their
yet earlier childhoods from even older people who already knew it. And so on,
back and back.
Think of the consequences of what we are saying. We appear suddenly to be
trapped in an infinite regress: it seems that we require an endless chain of everolder speakers of English extending back to the beginning of time, or at least
back to the beginning of human speech in the very distant past, perhaps 100,000
or 200,000 years ago or more. And, of course, the same is true for every other
language: we also require an endless chain of French speakers running back to
the beginning of language, and an endless chain of speakers of Swahili, and
Chinese, and Norwegian, and so on. Is this plausible? Has something gone
wrong with our reasoning?
What we have so far certainly seems logical. It appears that the very first
human beings to speak a language at all must simultaneously have been speaking English, and French, and Swahili, and Chinese, and Norwegian, and everything else, since all humans are descended from them. This conclusion sounds
deranged.
In fact, there is nothing wrong with our reasoning at all. Moreover, there is
nothing really wrong with our conclusions, either. It is merely that we have
overlooked one critical detail, which has made our perfectly reasonable conclusions look preposterous: the fact that languages change. It is changing all the
time, every moment in fact. It is always changing in every possible way: in
pronunciation, in vocabulary, in grammar.
As a result, as we saw earlier, the English that you learn is not quite the same
English your parents learned several decades earlier. It is already conspicuously
different from the English learned by the young Marilyn Monroe around 1930 –
remember all those familiar words that Marilyn never heard? It is even more
different from the English learned by the infant Humphrey Bogart about a
century ago. It is increasingly different from the English learned in childhood
by Winston Churchill (born 1871), by Oscar Wilde (born 1854), by Charles
Darwin and Abraham Lincoln (both born 1809), by Jane Austen (born 1775), by
George Washington (born 1732), by Alexander Pope (born 1688), by Jonathan
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Why Do Languages Change?
Swift (born 1667), by Robert Boyle (born 1627) and by William Shakespeare
(born 1564).
As we have already seen, Shakespeare’s written English is already very
strange to us, and his speech might be incomprehensible to us if we could
hear it. Just a couple of centuries earlier, the written English of Geoffrey
Chaucer (born 1343) is already at the very limit of comprehension or even a
little beyond, while Chaucer’s speech would be wholly unintelligible. As we
keep moving back in time, the language keeps growing steadily more different
from our own – or, to put it more sensibly, the English of later times has been
growing steadily more different from earlier English.
If King Alfred the Great could be brought back to life today, he would
understand not one word of English speech or writing – and King Alfred
lived not much more than a thousand years ago. So long as English does not
die out, this constant change will continue for ever, and the English of the future
will grow ever more different from ours, until eventually there will be not a
single word or form left that we can recognise. And that raises an interesting
question: at this point, will the language still be ‘English’? This question brings
us to the naming problem.
The naming problem
Once upon a time, in the days of King Alfred the Great, there was a language
that looked like this:
He cwæð, Soðlice sum man hæfde twegen suna. Þa cwæð se gingra to his fæder, Fæder,
syle me minne dæl minre æhte þe me to gebyreð.
And its speakers called it ‘English’. Centuries later, the language had changed
substantially, and the same sentence now looked like this:
And he seide, A man hadde twei sones; and the ʒonger of hem seide to the fadir, Fadir,
ʒyue me the porcioun of catel, that fallith to me.
The speakers of this variety also called their language ‘English’. Today, centuries later again, the same sentence looks like this:
And he said, ‘There was a man who had two sons; and the younger of them said to his
father, ‘Father, give me the share of property that falls to me.’
How long can we go on doing this? How long should we go on doing it? Recall
the little joke about George Washington’s axe: ‘This is the very axe that George
Washington used to chop down that cherry tree. Of course, since then, it’s had
two new handles and three new heads.’
Suppose King Alfred’s language is reasonably called English. When a day
finally comes when not a single word or grammatical form still survives from
Which is the oldest language?
157
King Alfred’s speech, is it still reasonable to call the result ‘English’? Are we
still looking at the ‘same’ language? How can we tell? Does the question make
any sense anyway?
There are several possible answers to such questions, and they are all
plausible.
The first point is that King Alfred’s language has evolved into just one
modern language – by the most usual reckoning, anyway. King Alfred was
quite satisfied that there was just one language called ‘English’ in the Britain of
his day, even though he knew perfectly well that English was spoken somewhat
differently in different places. Today most of us are equally satisfied that there
exists just one English language, even though we all know that English is
spoken rather differently in different parts of the world. So long as we agree
that there is only one language involved, there is no particular obstacle to calling
it ‘English’, today and at all periods.
Of course, King Alfred’s English was so immensely different from ours that,
for some purposes, we really need to make some distinctions in our labelling.
We do this in the following arbitrary but convenient manner. From the arrival of
English in Britain to the year 1100, we call the language Old English. From
1100 to 1500, we speak of Middle English. From 1500 to 1700, the language is
Early Modern English. And, finally, from 1700 to the present we recognise
Modern English.
You can see that this set of names is not going to work for ever. After a few
more centuries, the English of 1700 will be as incomprehensible to future
speakers as King Alfred’s English is to us, and so they won’t be able to continue
calling it ‘Modern English’. But, for the time being, this set of labels is as good
as anything we can think of.
But suppose we lost our consensus that English is a single language? There
are already a few people who don’t agree about this. In the 1920s, the American
writer H. L. Mencken argued that the language of the United States was no
longer English, but a quite distinct language which he proposed to call
American. It is perfectly possible that the several regional varieties of
English – in England, in Scotland, in the USA, in Australia and elsewhere –
may drift apart to the extent that it no longer makes much sense to regard all
them as the same language, or to give all them the same name.
Indeed, the Germanic variety of Scotland – Scots – is considered to be a
variety separate from Modern English by a great many people in that country.
On this occasion, the fact that the variety had a written standardised form in the
Renaissance, is associated with a country with a strong sense of its separate
identity and is not at all easy for most speakers of English to understand helps
this argument. On the other hand, Scots is presently dialectalised under
Standard English and no one would deny that it is a very close relative – the
closest relative – of English in existence.
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Why Do Languages Change?
Exactly this state of affairs has come about countless times in the past.
Around 500 BC, Latin was the language only of a small community in central
Italy. Within a few centuries, however, its speakers – the Romans – had carved
out a vast empire stretching from Britain and the Atlantic coast of Europe to
modern Iraq. In much of this territory, their Latin language displaced the earlier
languages and became the mother tongue. For a while, a more or less uniform
version of Latin was spoken throughout this territory. But, of course, spoken
Latin, like every spoken language, was continuing to change, and it changed in
different ways in different places.
After a few centuries, there were enormous differences among the regional
varieties of Latin. There were no sharp boundaries, of course, and everybody
could easily understand other speakers who lived within twenty or thirty miles,
but beyond that things became difficult, and nobody could understand another
Latin speaker who came from 300 miles away. Finally, it no longer made much
sense to keep applying the name ‘Latin’ to this welter of local varieties which
were no longer mutually comprehensible. Instead, people found themselves
speaking of ‘Leonese’ and ‘Tuscan’ and ‘Provençal’ and so forth. Much later,
some of these local varieties succeeded in becoming the national languages of
large nation-states, and so we began to speak of ‘Spanish’ and ‘Italian’ and
‘French’ and so on – as we still do today.
Latin is not really a dead language. It has several hundred million native speakers
today. But those speakers speak Latin in a form that would be wholly incomprehensible to Julius Caesar – just as Modern English would be incomprehensible to
King Alfred. In addition, though, they speak modern Latin in quite a number of
very different regional varieties, varieties which are not mutually comprehensible.
So, instead of adopting such cumbersome labels as Parisian Latin, Florentine Latin
and Castilian Latin, we just speak of French, Italian and Spanish.
If we ever find it necessary, we can one day do the same with English. We can
abandon the name English, and speak instead of regional languages like
American and Australian. So far, however, this has not been necessary, and
we can keep the label ‘English’ for all the many regional varieties.
But now let’s take the name backwards in time. How early was it appropriate
to apply the label ‘English’ to ancestors of our speech?
As we saw in an earlier chapter, English is descended from a group of
Germanic dialects we call North Sea Germanic, which in turn was descended
from an unrecorded language we call Proto-Germanic, which in turn was
descended from a much earlier unrecorded language we call Proto-IndoEuropean, which in turn was descended from … a language we know nothing
about and do not even have a name for.
Also descended from North Sea Germanic are Frisian, Dutch, Afrikaans and
some varieties of Low German. All these we want to count as separate languages from English, and so we don’t want to call any of them ‘English’.
Which is the oldest language?
159
Also descended from Proto-Germanic, apart from the ones just named, are
Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, Icelandic, Faeroese, High German, Yiddish and
quite a few extinct languages, such as Gothic. These too we want to count as
separate languages from English.
Also descended from Proto-Indo-European are very many languages: Irish,
Spanish, Lithuanian, Russian, Albanian, Greek, Armenian, Kurdish, Bengali
and many others, including several extinct ones like Hittite, Tocharian A,
Illyrian and Dalmatian. We certainly don’t want to count any of these as
varieties of English.
So, at what point can we reasonably start using the label ‘English’? I hope the
answer is becoming obvious: we are happy to call an ancestral form ‘English’ if
that ancestor is the ancestor of only one modern language: Modern English.
We can’t call Proto-Indo-European ‘English’, because PIE split up into a
huge number of quite distinct languages, most of which cannot possibly be
regarded as varieties of English. We can’t call Proto-Germanic ‘English’,
because Proto-Germanic split up into quite a number of distinct languages,
most of which we cannot sensibly call ‘English’. We can’t even call North Sea
Germanic ‘English’, because North Sea Germanic has split up into several quite
distinct modern languages, of which English is only one.
But the version of North Sea Germanic that was introduced into Britain has
given rise to only one uncontested descendant: Modern English. Therefore, we
now have a reasonable answer to our question. We can safely apply the name
‘English’ to the ancestral forms of English from the moment those first
Germanic-speaking settlers stepped ashore in Britain.
Naturally, those invaders would have been astonished to be told that they
were speaking a different language the moment they got their boots wet in the
British surf. In reality, of course, they were still speaking the same language as
their cousins who had stayed home, and whose speech would eventually evolve
into varieties of Frisian, Dutch and (Low) German – all which we now count as
languages distinct from English and from one another. But we have to make a
decision about how to use our label, and the arrival of those first Germanic
speakers in Britain gives us the perfect opportunity to introduce the label
‘English’. The Germanic speech of these settlers took root in Britain, and it
eventually developed into the Old English of King Alfred, the Middle English
of Chaucer, the Early Modern English of Shakespeare, and English today.
Naturally, most cases are not quite as simple as the English one. Latin, as we
have just seen, was spoken over a large area of Europe for centuries, but it
gradually began to break up into a number of regional varieties, some of which
eventually came to be important languages.
Take the speech of Paris. In AD 100, the Romans in Lutetia (as Paris was then
known) were undeniably speaking Latin, practically the same Latin that was
being spoken by other Roman citizens in Italy, in Spain and elsewhere. Today,
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Why Do Languages Change?
however, the people of Paris undeniably speak the language we have agreed to
call ‘French’. We have to use a different name, because Latin has developed into
quite a number of different modern languages, and not only into French. But at
what point in time should we start applying the label ‘French’ to the speech of
Paris?
This time there is no discontinuity that we can seize upon, nothing like the
Germanic speakers’ crossing of the North Sea. So, we must appeal to a
convention, a convention which we have invented for our own convenience:
we have decided that we will apply the name ‘Latin’ to the speech of Paris until
AD 900, while after that date we will apply the name ‘French’. But nothing
happened in Paris in AD 900, and this decision does not correspond to an event
in the world: it is a purely arbitrary decision.
This decision is a scholarly convenience, no more. Latin was never displaced
from Paris by a different language: instead, Latin has just evolved in place into
French, and there is no discontinuity we can point to. So, the ‘beginnings’ that
you may sometimes see declared for particular languages are not really beginnings at all, but only scholarly conventions invented for convenience.
Languages do not have beginnings.
Another interesting example is provided by Afrikaans. Dutch immigrants
began to settle in what is now South Africa in the seventeenth century.
Naturally, the Dutch spoken in the Cape Colony and the Dutch spoken in
Europe began to diverge, and in this case the interesting social conditions in
the colony helped to accelerate this divergence. By the late nineteenth century
the European and African varieties of Dutch were already very different. But the
Dutch speakers in Africa continued to accept standard European Dutch as their
own standard, and educated people in the colony learned to read and write only
European Dutch. The very different spoken language of the colony was called
‘Cape Dutch’, and it was generally regarded as no more than an unusual local
variety of the ‘mother tongue’.
Then in 1875 an association was formed to promote the writing of Cape
Dutch in a form which was close to everyday speech. The association’s movement prospered, and before long Cape Dutch was increasingly being regarded
as the ‘proper’ language of the Afrikaner community in South Africa. Finally, in
1925, the Union of South Africa withdrew recognition from European Dutch,
and accepted instead that Cape Dutch, now renamed ‘Afrikaans’, was a real
language and an official language of the country.
So, Afrikaans officially came into existence in 1925, but again there was no
linguistic event in that year, only a political decision to recognise two languages
where before only one language had been recognised.
We are now in a position to answer the question which forms the title of this
chapter: which is the oldest language? First, though, we must lay aside a few
exceptional languages, languages which are special cases, languages which
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161
have not come into existence in the ‘ordinary’ way. We will talk about these
special cases in the next chapter. Leaving the special cases aside, however, we
can answer the question very simply and bluntly, as follows:
No language is ‘older’ than any other language, and there is no ‘oldest’
language.
We can sensibly ask about the age of something only when that something has an
identifiable beginning. We can ask about your age, because you have a beginning:
you were born. We can ask about the age of the Wimbledon tennis championships, or of the United States, or of agriculture, because these things all had
beginnings. We can even ask about the age of the Hawaiian islands, because there
was a point in time when these islands were first pushed above the surface of the
Pacific by volcanic activity. But languages do not have beginnings, and therefore
we cannot ask about the ‘age’ of a language. There is no point in time at which a
language that formerly did not exist suddenly pops into existence. Therefore, no
language can be ‘older’ than any other, and there can be no ‘oldest’ language.
Asking whether one language is ‘older’ than another is a foolish waste of time.
If this troubles you, just think about the consequences of denying it. Suppose
you maintain that language A is older than language B. You are therefore
claiming that there was a time in the past when language A already existed
but language B did not yet exist. So where did language B come from? You are
claiming that, at some later time, there came into existence a first generation of
speakers of language B, and that these speakers learned a language that did not
exist. And this, I hope you will agree, is absurd.
Languages do not appear out of nothing. All that ever happens is that the
regional varieties of a language become so different that we eventually find it
convenient to invent some new names. But the invention of a new name is not a
linguistic event. A child who learns English or French or Afrikaans today
represents just one more generation in an unbroken chain of learners stretching
back to the beginning of human speech, and the differing names we may choose
to apply to different historical periods are nothing but conveniences we have
invented to please ourselves: there was never any point at which children were
learning a language different from their parents’ language.
Which languages were recorded first?
Human beings have been speaking languages for tens of thousands of years, and
probably for hundreds of thousands of years. But, until very recently by these
standards, our ancestors had no way of making records of their speech.
Countless languages arose, were learned by children, were spoken by smaller
or larger groups of people for who knows how many generations, before
changing into quite different descendants or being displaced by other
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Why Do Languages Change?
languages. Of all these thousands of languages we have no records, and we will
never know anything about them.
Only very late in human ancestry did somebody think of a technique for
recording languages. That technique was not sound recording, which was
invented only at the end of the nineteenth century, but something a little less
direct: writing.
Writing is a way of transferring pieces of language into a more or less
permanent form, by making marks on a solid surface, using a conventional
system of marks which represent small pieces of a language. It is important to
realise that, in a true writing system, every utterance of a language can be
adequately written down – everything from On this day the King destroyed his
enemies to I love you, Snugglebunny. If you cannot write down every utterance
of your language in a way that is immediately readable by someone who knows
the system, then you do not have a writing system.
Long before writing was invented, people were making marks with particular
meanings. Sometimes the owner of a valuable artefact would scratch his mark
onto it, to show that it was his, much as cattlemen in the Old West used to brand
their cattle. Some urban societies developed systems of marks or tokens for
keeping track of certain kinds of information, such as taxes owing and taxes
paid. But these arrangements are too limited to record anything beyond the
special purposes for which they are designed, and they are not writing: we call
them precursors of writing.
Another point to bear in mind is that a writing system can only allow the
writing down of a particular language. The characters of the writing system
must, in one fashion or another, represent units of the language, such as speech
sounds, syllables or words. It is not possible to construct a writing system which
bypasses the language and represents ‘thoughts’ or ‘ideas’ directly. Quite a few
philosophers have tried to invent such systems, but these absolutely don’t work.
Failure to understand this blunt fact has at times been a headache in linguistic
work. For example, the decipherment of the ancient Egyptian writing system –
the hieroglyphs – by European scholars was badly obstructed and delayed
because so many of the scholars working on the problem assumed that
Egyptian hieroglyphs, with their picturesque characters, could not simply
represent the ordinary Egyptian language, but must instead constitute some
kind of esoteric symbolic system which conveyed ideas directly, without the
mediation of a human language. Without the effects of this confused nonsense,
the hieroglyphs might have been deciphered decades earlier than they were. The
decipherment was finally achieved in the 1820s by Jean-François Champollion,
a young French linguist who realised that the fascinating-looking symbols of
the Egyptian monumental texts were nothing more than a system devised for
writing down pieces of speech in the ancient Egyptian language (it helped that
he knew its descendant, Coptic, which only died out as an everyday language in
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the sixteenth or seventeenth century). Having understood that much, he needed
only a few years of work to decipher the hieroglyphs and read the texts.
Why was writing invented so late? For most of the time of human existence,
our ancestors didn’t bother to invent writing because they had no need for it.
Most of our ancestors were foragers – hunter-gatherers – and even today the
remaining foragers do not bother to write anything down. Anything that needs
to be remembered can be passed on orally, from one generation to the next.
There is nothing that foragers need to keep permanent records of, and anyway
such people lead a nomadic existence, moving from place to place with the
seasons, and they must keep their physical possessions to a bare minimum
(although, of course, hunter-gatherers were able to produce permanent art of the
level of sophistication of the cave paintings at Lascaux).
Even when some of our ancestors switched to farming as a way of life, and
therefore settled down in one place, there was still nothing that needed to be
written down. The first farming communities arose about 10,000 years ago –
about 8000 BC – and the farmers flourished and spread for thousands of years
without any writing. They had no use for it.
The pressures that led to the invention of writing arose only after people had
first invented something else: cities. Urban societies need something that foragers, pastoralists and farmers don’t need: administration. Urban societies have
kings, priests, armies and merchants to keep track of. Taxes have to be levied
and collected. Armies have to be equipped, and soldiers and officials have to be
paid. Laws have to be introduced, explained and of course recorded. They also
have to be enforced, and so an urban society needs police, courts, judges and
what Americans euphemistically term a ‘correctional system’. And all this
activity calls for the keeping of records. For a little while, our first urban
ancestors managed to make do with notches, scratches and tokens, but such
primitive devices are really not adequate for providing the extensive records that
soon came to be necessary. And so writing was finally invented.
Writing was not invented in order to preserve literature or religious texts. It
was invented by and for bureaucrats. Writing was invented in order to make
possible the blizzard of activity that today we call ‘paperwork’ – though paper
was not invented until much later, and the earliest writing was inscribed on clay
tablets, on slabs of stone, or on sheets of pressed vegetable fibres.
So far as we know, the first people to invent writing were the Sumerians, who
lived in what is now southern Iraq. The Sumerians were a remarkably talented
and energetic people, and they developed the world’s first elaborate urban
civilisation. Before long, they realised they needed a way to keep records, and
so they invented the world’s first writing system, around 3200 BC. This they
used to write down their Sumerian language, which is related to no other known
language. This first writing system was complex and cumbersome, by our
standards: it employed some hundreds of characters, some of which represented
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Why Do Languages Change?
speech sounds while others gave clues to the meanings of words. We call the
Sumerian writing system cuneiform, which means ‘wedge-shaped’, but this
label denotes nothing more than the shapes of the marks on the clay tablets, and
it in no way reflects the nature of the system.
The Egyptians appear to have invented their own writing system no more
than a century after the Sumerians. This is the system of monumental writing
which we call hieroglyphs, a label which means only ‘sacred carvings’. Like the
Sumerian cuneiform, the Egyptian hieroglyphs were a complicated system
involving hundreds of characters with varying functions.
Also around 3200 BC, an unidentified ancient language of Persia began to be
written in a script adapted from the Sumerian script. These inscriptions, termed
‘Proto-Elamite’, lasted only for about two centuries, after which the practice
died out.
For some centuries, then, with a short-lived exception in Persia, the
Sumerian and Egyptian writing systems were the only ones in use anywhere,
and no other languages were written. Eventually, however, the speakers of
several other Near Eastern languages began to adapt the Sumerian system for
writing their own languages. At the time, there were quite a few Semitic
languages spoken in the area, and several of these, such as Kassite, Amorite
and Eblaite, began to be written in a modified form of the Sumerian cuneiform
around 2500 BC. Around the same time, the cuneiform began to be used to
write Elamite, a language of Persia, and Hurrian, an ancient language of
eastern Turkey, whose only known relative, Urartian, is extinct, like Hurrian.
At this time, however, writing was still unknown outside the Near East and
Egypt.
Then, again about 2500 BC, another writing system was invented in the
valley of the River Indus, in what is now Pakistan. Here a spectacular urban
civilisation suddenly flourished. The unknown people who built the Indus
Valley cities created their own writing system, utterly distinct from the
Sumerian and Egyptian ones – although possibly inspired by knowledge of
the former. Sadly, this script has never been deciphered and we have no idea
what language lies concealed within it.
After flourishing for nearly a thousand years, the Indus Valley civilisation
declined and finally collapsed – possibly as a result of an invasion by the
speakers of Indo-European languages on their way into India. The script
dropped out of use, and writing disappeared from the Indian subcontinent for
another millennium or more.
Around 2350 BC, the Sumerian cuneiform system began to be used to write
Akkadian, the Semitic language of some up-and-coming peoples of
Mesopotamia. Akkadian was the language of both the Assyrians and the
Babylonians, and these peoples, one after the other, succeeded in establishing
formidable empires in the Near East. For many centuries, these peoples wrote
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their own language in the borrowed Sumerian script with considerable success.
The volume of the texts left to us by their bureaucratic states is enormous.
For many centuries after its invention, writing remained largely confined to
the Near East. But there were developments. The cumbersome early systems,
with their hundreds of characters, began to give way to newer and more efficient
systems, with a much smaller number of characters, each of which represented a
unit of pronunciation.
One of the first examples of this new approach is found in Crete. From about
1800 BC, the Minoan civilisation of Crete began writing its Minoan language in
one of the simple new systems: the first European language to be written. This
script, which we call Minoan Linear A, has never been deciphered: once again
we have no idea what language (or languages) lies buried in the script. But it
seems clear that Linear A is what we call a syllabary, in which each character
represents the sound of a syllable: one character for ma, another for be, another
for tu, and so on.
From the seventeenth century BC we find in what is now Turkey the first
written records of Hittite, an ancient and long extinct language of the IndoEuropean family. Hittite was thus the first Indo-European language to be
written.
Around the same time, the speakers of some Semitic languages in the Near
East took a momentous step forward: they invented the first alphabetic writing
system. This first alphabet was defective, in that it provided letters only for
consonant sounds and not for vowel sounds, and some specialists prefer to class
this system as an abjad, an exclusively consonantal alphabet. Versions of this
abjad came to be widely used for writing Semitic languages, such as Ugaritic
and Canaanite.
About 1550 BC we find a greatly modified version of the Cretan Linear A
script being used to write a quite different language in Crete and in mainland
Greece. This new script, Linear B, was deciphered in the late 1950s by the
English architect and amateur linguist Michael Ventris, who demonstrated to
general satisfaction, and also to general astonishment, that the language concealed in the Linear B texts was an early form of Greek – a form which we now
call Mycenaean Greek. Greek was thus the first language to be written on the
mainland of Europe. But the Linear B writing system did not endure for long:
around 1200 BC the Mycenaean Greek civilisation collapsed, and all knowledge of writing was lost in Greece for centuries.
So, as we approach the year 1200 BC, we find the use of writing confined to a
small area not much greater than the territory of the Near East and Egypt where
writing had first been invented 2,000 years earlier. Writing had spread eastward
to the Indus Valley and to Persia, but it had survived only in Persia. It had also
spread westward to Crete and Greece, but it was about to disappear also from
those territories. Writing was in established and continuing use nowhere but in
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Why Do Languages Change?
the little triangle of land whose corners were the modern countries of Egypt,
Turkey and Iran.
Thus, by 1200 BC, writing was unknown in by far the greater part of the
globe, and it has probably crossed your mind that some very prominent languages have not yet been mentioned. But it was at just this time, thousands of
miles away, that an important new writing system was invented: the Chinese
writing system. By this date speakers of an early form of Chinese had already
been settled in north China for perhaps millennia. The system which they
invented is in fact the direct ancestor of the modern Chinese script, which has
thus been in continuous use for over 3,000 years. Greek was written a few
centuries earlier than Chinese, but the temporary loss of writing which occurred
in Greece about 1200 BC means that Chinese has the longer uninterrupted
tradition of writing.
Meanwhile, back in the Near East, writing was still spreading from language
to language. Around 900 BC, we find the first written texts in a language that
would later come to be of great importance to western civilisation. Hebrew was
a member of the Northwest Semitic dialect cluster, and it had probably emerged
as a language recognisably distinct from its relatives by about 1500 BC, but
only about 900 BC did the speakers of Hebrew begin to write their language,
using a form of the Semitic abjad probably borrowed from their neighbours the
Phoenicians. The vast antiquity sometimes imputed to Hebrew is therefore no
more than a legend: Hebrew was first written down centuries later than Greek or
Chinese, and millennia later than Sumerian or Egyptian. This early Hebrew
script was quite different in form from the one that everybody knows today; this
later form developed only a few centuries after the Hebrews acquired writing.
Around 750 BC (very roughly, since this date is not known with any
accuracy), the Greeks re-acquired writing. They did this by borrowing the
Semitic abjad from their trading partners the Phoenicians, but they made one
great modification: they added letters for vowels. With letters for both vowels
and consonants, the resulting Greek script was thus the world’s first true
alphabet.
This new alphabet began to spread. A modified version of the Greek alphabet
was adopted by the Etruscans, an influential people of northern Italy, who used
this to write their Etruscan language, beginning in about the seventh century
BC. The Etruscans in turn passed on the alphabet to their southern neighbours
the Romans, who modified it further in order to write their own language, Latin.
The first known Latin inscriptions date probably from the sixth century BC,
while the first Latin literature is found in the third century BC.
Meanwhile, both the Greeks and the Phoenicians had been exploring and
colonising much of the Mediterranean, and wherever they went they took their
writing systems with them. As a result, indigenous writing systems had
appeared in Spain no later than the sixth century BC; these systems were
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167
clearly influenced by both the Greek and the Phoenician systems, but were
distinct from both.
Writing was finally beginning to spread to places far from its origins in Sumer
and Egypt, though only some 2,500 years after its invention. About 500 BC, a
new writing system was created in Persia and used to write a form of the Persian
language. About the same time, but very much farther away and almost
inevitably independently, the first writing in the New World appeared in
Mexico. Somewhat later, in the third century BC, a writing system was invented
by the speakers of Meroitic, a language which was then prominent in the part of
Africa which today we call Sudan.
All this time, India had been wholly without writing ever since the collapse of
the ancient Indus Valley civilisation. But finally, in the third century BC, the
Mauryan conqueror Aśoka introduced a new writing system, based upon
developed versions of the Semitic scripts, the first ever seen in what is now
India, and using it to write down his north Indian language, which was related to
such modern languages as Hindi-Urdu, Bengali and Gujarati. Very soon after
this, and still in the third century, writing was adopted by the speakers of the
south Indian language Tamil. Eventually the Mauryan Brahmi script gave rise to
a great number of varied writing systems, including all those used in the Indian
subcontinent (except the Arabic script, used for Urdu and other languages
mainly written by Moslems, and the scripts used in the Maldives), as well as
the scripts used for Burmese, Thai, Lao, Khmer, Tibetan and a number of nowextinct scripts once used in central Asia.
In the first century AD, some speakers of Germanic languages in northern
Europe encountered the Romans and their alphabet. Intrigued, the Germanic
speakers decided to adopt writing, but, instead of taking over the Roman
alphabet bodily, they constructed their own alphabet, which we call the runic
alphabet, or the futhark (its first six letters were <f u þ [th] a r k>). They used
their runes for short inscriptions from the first century onwards, though apparently they never wrote any longer texts in runic script.
Around AD 250, the Mayans in Guatemala began to write their Mayan
language in a graphically stunning script which has only recently been deciphered. The Mayan script was not perfected until about 900, however, to the
extent that early examples might be described as ‘proto-writing’.
Arabic was first written in the fourth century AD, as were some of the
languages of Ethiopia. Armenian began to be written in AD 406, and
Georgian (a Caucasian language) in AD 430. We find the first inscriptions in
Irish in the fifth century AD, using the distinctive Ogham alphabet devised
locally under the inspiration of the Roman alphabet; Irish literature, written now
in the latter, followed in the eighth century. Written literature in Welsh began in
the sixth century. English and German were written down for the first time in the
eighth century, as was Tibetan, half the globe away. The first Slavonic language
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Why Do Languages Change?
to be written down was Old Church Slavonic, recorded in a distinctive alphabet
from the ninth century.
Sometime between the fifth and tenth centuries – the time is not known with
any precision – the speakers of Korean and of Japanese began to write their own
languages in scripts derived from the Chinese writing system, although in both
cases it took centuries before effective and standardised systems were achieved.
Hungarian was first written in the thirteenth century, and the European
languages Finnish, Lithuanian, Albanian and Basque were first written down
in the sixteenth century. The North American languages Cherokee and Cree
were first written in the nineteenth century, as were several West African
languages. Some of the languages of India and many of the languages of
South America were only written for the first time in the twentieth century.
Writing has thus existed for a little over 5,000 years. For the first two
millennia of its existence, writing was scarcely found outside the Near East.
Since then, it has gradually spread across the globe, so that today there is
probably no inhabited place anywhere on earth which is devoid of writing.
Even so, only a minority of languages are normally written: of the world’s 7,000
or so mother tongues, it is unlikely that as many as 10 per cent are regularly
written, and most of them are never written at all.
But now let’s get back to the point. If Chinese was written down earlier than
Hebrew, this fact in no way makes Chinese ‘older’ than Hebrew. It does mean,
of course, that the earliest written records of Chinese are older than the earliest
written records of Hebrew, but this is a very different matter. The languages and
their ancestors were being spoken all the time, whether anybody was writing
them down or not, and Hebrew did not suddenly spring into existence only
when somebody decided to write it.
If this troubles you, think of your own ancestors. You can only trace your
ancestors back so many generations. Perhaps you can only find records of your
family going back to your great-grandparents, or perhaps you can get back to
some of your great-great-great-grandparents, or perhaps you can trace a branch
of your family back to the Norman Conquest or even the restoration of the
Jerusalem Temple. But you can only trace your ancestors back in time so far
before the written records run out. Before then, you know nothing about them.
But do you suppose that you had no ancestors before the first ones appear in the
records? Like everybody, you have a string of ancestors stretching all the way
back to the first appearance of human beings on earth. Your ancestors were
always there, whether anybody was keeping records of them or not.
And languages are no different. They have always been there, whether anybody was writing them down or not, ever since our remote ancestors first began
to speak. When a language has acquired a written form, we can often date the
introduction of that written form with some accuracy. We know that Chinese
began to be written approximately 1200 BC, and we know that Armenian began
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Table 8.1 The spread of writing
Sumerian, Egyptian, Proto-Elamite
3000 BC
2500 BC
Semitic, Elamite, Hurrian, Indus Valley language
Akkadian
2000 BC
1500 BC
Minoan Linear A
Hittite, Semitic alphabet
Greek Linear B
Chinese
1000 BC
500 BC
AD 1
AD 500
AD 1000
AD 1500
Hebrew
Greek alphabet, Etruscan, Latin
Persian, first Mexican writing
Meroitic, Indian languages
Germanic runes
Mayan
Arabic, Ethiopian languages
Armenian, Georgian, Irish
Welsh, Korean, Japanese
English, Tibetan, German
Old Church Slavonic, French, Italian
Old Norse, Occitan, Serbo-Croatian, Dutch, Tuscan
Spanish, Catalan, Czech, Danish, Swedish, Hungarian, Turkish
Cornish, Breton, Scots, Yiddish
Finnish, Estonian, Latvian, Lithuanian, Polish, Slovene, Albanian,
Basque
writing widespread
AD 2000
to be written in AD 406 exactly. Written forms have beginnings, sometimes
very sharp ones; Table 8.1 presents a timeline for the spread of writing But
languages, once again, have no beginnings.
As ever, when dealing with humans and language, there are, however, a few
exceptions to this general tendency.
The possibility of a beginning
I mentioned at the start of this chapter that a few exceptions exist: languages that
really do have identifiable beginnings. Where would we find these?
One obvious case is artificial languages – languages which are invented by
individuals or groups. At least dozens, and perhaps hundreds, of artificial
languages have been constructed over the years. Most of them have never left
the pages of their designers’ notebooks, but a few have attracted some measure
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of support. Perhaps the most famous – and linguistically sophisticated –
artificial language is Esperanto, invented in the 1880s by a Polish oculist,
Dr L. L. Zamenhof. Other artificial languages which have enjoyed some
measure of success are Volapük, a predecessor driven out of business by
Zamenhof’s creation; Interlingua, a form of simplified Latin which has
found some use for scientific purposes; and Klingon, invented by the linguist
Mark Okrand for the Klingon characters in the Star Trek films, and now
perhaps being learned by more Americans than French or German. I might
also mention the several artificial languages invented by J. R. R. Tolkien for
his own amusement and then built into his books. These languages have also
been learned by a significant number of people.
But an artificial language is not a natural language: that is, it is no one’s
mother tongue. Moreover, there is no artificial language which serves, or has
ever served, as the principal language of a community, or even as one of the
chief languages of a community. At best, an artificial language plays an
auxiliary role, allowing conversation between people who have no other language in common. Otherwise, an artificial language is no more than a toy which
can provide some entertainment to those who enjoy such things. There are,
however, ‘new’ languages which do have a speech community.
Pidgins
Very often, two or more groups of people have found themselves obliged to deal
with one another even though they have had no language in common. There are
various ways of dealing with this problem. If time permits, a few people can
learn the other group’s language well enough to serve as interpreters. Otherwise,
perhaps a few gestures, supplemented with smiles and frowns, will get the
job done.
In many cases, however, the solution adopted has been another one: the
people involved create a pidgin, a kind of auxiliary language created in just
such circumstances of contact between people with no language in common.
A pidgin is no one’s mother tongue. If I may simplify things considerably, we
may classify pidgins into two types: unelaborated and elaborated. By the
standards of any mother tongue, an unelaborated pidgin is a rudimentary
affair. It typically has a tiny vocabulary, just enough to permit everyday
matters to be handled adequately. And it may have very little in the way of a
grammar. Some unelaborated pidgins, in fact, appear to have almost no
grammar at all, though no pidgin is entirely devoid of grammatical conventions, and it is never true that ‘anything goes’ in a pidgin. Others have a
recognisable collection of grammatical rules and grammatical elements, but
the resulting system is seldom comparable to the rich grammar we can find in
any mother tongue.
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A good example of an unelaborated pidgin is Russenorsk, a pidgin used in the
nineteenth century between Norwegian fishermen and Russian merchants.
Russenorsk is no longer used, but we have some moderately substantial records
of it. Those records contain a total of 390 words, about half of which are
recorded only once each. We may therefore surmise that the everyday vocabulary of the pidgin consisted of no more than about 200 words. Of these, nearly
half were taken from Norwegian, and almost as many from Russian, with a
scattering of words from five or six other languages.
Russenorsk seems to have had almost no grammar at all. Norwegian and
Russian both distinguish singular forms of nouns from plural forms, but
Russenorsk had no such distinction. Russian has a rich case system, but
Russenorsk had no cases. Norwegian and Russian both have elaborate systems
for inflecting verbs, but verbs in Russenorsk were invariable: there wasn’t even
any tense-marking. Interestingly, however, almost every Russenorsk verb
ended in the syllable -om, of uncertain origin, apparently just to show that it
was a verb. Examples are betalom ‘pay’ (from Norwegian) and robotom ‘work’
(from Russian). But some verbs taken from Russian lacked this syllable.
Both Russian and Norwegian have a fair number of prepositions, but
Russenorsk had just one: the all-purpose på (primarily Norwegian, although
there are similar Russian prepositions). Some examples: klokka på yu (literally
‘watch på you’) ‘your watch’; principal på syib? (‘captain på ship?’) ‘Is the
captain on the ship?’; på morradag (‘på tomorrow’) ‘tomorrow’; moya tvoya på
vater kastom (‘me you på water throw’) ‘I will throw you in the water’; stova på
Kristus spræk (‘house på Christ speak’) ‘church’.
Russenorsk seems to have lacked subordinate clauses. When necessary,
clauses were simply juxtaposed or linked with the word så ‘so’. An example:
Moya på anner skip nakka vin drikkom, så moya nakka lite pyan (‘me on other
ship some wine drink, so me some little drunk’) ‘I drank some wine on another
ship, and then I got a little drunk’. Yes–no questions were marked by rising
intonation only: Tvoya fisk kopom? (‘you fish buy?’) ‘Will you buy fish?’.
The existence of Russenorsk was first noted in 1785, which is probably not
long after it first began to be used. The pidgin continued to be used until 1914,
when the outbreak of war in Europe destroyed the commerce which it had
serviced. During its brief existence, Russenorsk apparently achieved and
maintained a measure of stability, though there was always some fluctuation.
Notice the occurrence of both syib and skip for ‘ship’ above, and note that
‘good’ could be expressed by any of bra (from Norwegian), good (from
English) or dobra (from Russian). The pronunciation was highly variable,
depending very much on the linguistic background of the speaker. But it seems
clear that the pidgin always remained very narrow in function: it never underwent any significant expansion or elaboration in order to serve a greater
variety of functions.
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Why Do Languages Change?
Many other pidgins likewise remain small and limited like Russenorsk. But
some pidgins meet a different fate. Let us turn to another case, one of the world’s
most celebrated pidgins, Tok Pisin.
Papua New Guinea occupies the eastern half of the huge island of New
Guinea. Something like 500 indigenous languages are spoken within its territory,
and no one of these languages can claim to be vastly more important than any
other. This linguistic diversity poses huge practical problems, and the citizens of
Papua New Guinea have responded with several different solutions. So far, the
solution which has proved to be the most successful is the creation of a pidgin,
which is usually called Tok Pisin ‘Language Pidgin’. Tok Pisin is one of the
official languages of the country; it is known and used by all educated people,
and it is widely spoken right across the country, including all official contexts.
Before independence, Papua New Guinea was governed by English-speaking
Australia. Tok Pisin is therefore a pidgin based on English: almost the entire
vocabulary of the language is taken from English, though there are a few words
taken from other languages. This, in fact, is the most usual state of affairs with a
pidgin. Russenorsk is slightly unusual in taking its words almost equally from
two different languages, though we find some other pidgins which have done
the same. We say that English is the lexifier language for Tok Pisin.
Below is a passage taken from the Tok Pisin newspaper Wantok. You should
note that the vowels represent ‘continental’ pronunciations rather than English:
Ol meri gat bikpela wari yet
Helt na envairomen em bikpela samting ol meri long kantri tude i gat bikpela wari
long en.
Bikos dispela tupela samting i save kamap strong long sindaun na laip bilong famili na
komyuniti insait long ol ples na kantri.
Long dispela wik, moa long 40 meri bilong Milen Be provins i bung long wanpela
woksop long Alotau bilong toktok long hevi bilong helt na envairomen long ol liklik
ailan na provins.
It is unlikely that you made much of this story, although you may have caught
a few glimmerings of what is being talked about. This illustrates a general rule
about pidgins: a pidgin is not mutually comprehensible with its lexifier
language.
Under these circumstances, the best thing to do is break down the text into
smaller units and compare with Standard English. Each word is accompanied by
its English source word (which does not always have the same meaning), or by
an English translation in italics (if the word does not come from English).
Ol meri gat bikpela wari yet
All woman got big-fellow worry yet
Helt na envairomen em ol bikpela samting
health and environment him all big-fellow something
Which is the oldest language?
173
ol meri long kantri tude i gat bikpela
all woman along country today he got big-fellow
wari long en. Bikos dispela
tupela
samting i
worry along him. Because this-fellow two-fellow something he
save kamap strong long sindaun na laip bilong
know come-up strong along sit-down and life belong
famili na komyuniti insait long ol ples na kantri.
family and community inside along all place and country.
Long dispela
wik, moa long 40 meri bilong
Along this-fellow week, more along 40 woman belong
Milen Be provins i bung long wanpela woksop
Milne Bay Province he meet along one-fellow workshop
long Alotau bilong toktok long hevi bilong helt na
along Alotau belong talk-talk along heavy belong health and
envairomen long ol liklik ailan na provins.
environment along all little island and province.
We might get more of an understanding of the passage, at least at a small-scale
level, from this treatment. A full understanding would still escape us without a
great deal of work, however. Let’s look at an English translation of the passage:
Women still have big worries
Health and environment are two of the major things which women in the country today
have big concerns about.
Because these two things often have a strong effect on the situation and life of families
and communities within villages and in the country.
This week, more than 40 women from Milne Bay Province are meeting in a workshop
at Alotau in order to talk about the difficulties of health and environment in the small
islands and provinces.
Tok Pisin is a success story. It has more speakers than perhaps any other
pidgin on the planet, and it is one of the very few that are regularly written. It has
become what we call an elaborated or extended pidgin. That is, it is no longer
merely a rudimentary auxiliary speech-form. Its vocabulary is large and growing steadily, and its grammatical elaboration is already well beyond what we
find in most pidgins.
For instance, in the 1890s, the language possessed an adverb baimbai,
meaning ‘later’, ‘after a while’. This adverb was derived from English by and
by, and it was optional, of course; when it was used, it came first in its sentence.
But then several things began to happen to this word.
First, it has been steadily reduced in form. Over time, the recorded forms have
been these: baimbai, b’mbai, b’bai, mbai, bai, ba and b’. Today the original
form baimbai is almost never heard, and the common forms are bai and ba.
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Why Do Languages Change?
Second, the word has moved: it no longer occurs at the beginning of the
sentence, but instead it immediately precedes the verb. Third, it is no longer
optional: when a speaker is talking about future time, then this item must be
used, even if the sentence contains another word explicitly expressing futurity,
such as bihain ‘later’ or klostu ‘soon’.
In short, this item has been grammaticalised. It is no longer an ordinary word,
but it has become an obligatory grammatical marker attached to the verb to
express future tense. This is a particularly effective example of the way in which
languages acquire grammar: what has happened here in Tok Pisin is very similar
to what has happened in thousands of other languages, and not only in pidgins.
Another factor in the development of Tok Pisin is that, not infrequently,
people in Papua New Guinea with no language in common other than that
language get married. Their children will quite possibly learn the mother
tongues of both their parents, but they will certainly learn to speak Tok Pisin.
In fact, they may acquire Tok Pisin as their mother tongue, or as one of their
mother tongues. And that makes a very big difference indeed.
Creoles
When a pidgin has become widely used in a community, it is not at all rare for
children to begin acquiring the pidgin as a mother tongue. This is a deeply
momentous development. A pidgin may be strictly an auxiliary speech variety,
rudimentary and severely limited. But no mother tongue on earth is ever
rudimentary or limited. Every mother tongue has both a large and expressive
vocabulary and a rich and complex system of grammar. So what happens when
children begin acquiring a pidgin as their mother tongue?
In the space of a single generation, the children can invent all the vocabulary
and all the grammar they need to make their new mother tongue a normal
language: a creole.
Many of the creoles spoken today are descended from pidgins that were
created as a result of the large population movements brought about by the
European expansion that started in the fifteenth century. For example, the
wholesale carrying of Africans as slaves to the Caribbean produced a number
of pidgins in this region, some of which gave rise to creoles which are still
widely spoken today.
Here we will look at Sranan, a creole which is the mother tongue of about a
third of the population of Suriname, a country on the north coast of South
America, and which is spoken as a second language by practically everybody
else in the country. Sranan is an English-based creole, meaning that it developed
out of an English-lexified pidgin. This may seem surprising, since the colonial
language of Suriname was Dutch for some 300 years before independence in
1975. But before the Dutch settlement there were English planters in the country
Which is the oldest language?
175
for several decades, and the presence of these English speakers was enough to
produce an English-based pidgin among the Africans imported as slaves.
The following is a song in Sranan. The abbreviation ‘FUT’ labels a marker of
future tense; ‘PL’ is ‘plural’; and ‘ASP’, which stands for ‘aspect’, represents a
rather subtle grammatical marker which is hard to translate into English.
Wi na den
uma
fu Sranan
we be the-PL woman of Suriname
‘We are the women of Suriname’
Wi na den
mama fu a kondre
we be the-PL mother of the country
‘We are the mothers of the country’
Na wi e
wasi den
pikin
be we ASP wash the-PL child
‘It’s we who wash the children’
Den mangri anu nanga fesi
them thin
hand with face
‘Their thin hands and faces’
Dan wi e
luku in den
bigi ay fu wi pikin
then we ASP look in the-PL big eye of we child
‘Then we look into the big eyes of our children’
Pikin nanga angri
child with hunger
‘Hungry children’
En wi e
pramisi:
and we ASP promise:
‘And we promise:’
‘Dyonsoro mama sa tyar’ a nyan’
just-now mother FUT carry the food
‘Soon Mama will bring the food’
Go prey now, go prey now
go play now go play now
‘Go play now, go play now.’
Though it will probably not be obvious from these brief extracts, Sranan
has a much richer grammatical system than does Tok Pisin – although Tok
Pisin is now catching up rapidly, since it too is becoming a native language
for some speakers. Again, a speaker of English can understand only so much
of this language, and complete understanding is impossible without first
learning it. However, in spite of its strange appearance to our eyes, Sranan is
just one more of the world’s 7,000 or so mother tongues, and it is every bit as
rich and expressive as the others. It is in no way deprived or deficient, and
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Why Do Languages Change?
there is nothing of importance which other languages have but which Sranan
lacks.
Once a creole comes into existence, it is a language like any other language.
In the case of a creole created only in the last several centuries, like Sranan, we
can still identify the language as a creole and work out quite a bit about its
origins and history. But what about a creole that was created several thousand
years ago?
After several thousand years of undergoing the ordinary processes of linguistic change, a language that started life as a creole derived from a pidgin would be
most unlikely to look much like an obvious creole any more. The accumulated
weight of countless changes in vocabulary, pronunciation and grammar would
undoubtedly produce something that was indistinguishable from Russian or
Zulu or Quechua: complicated pronunciation and grammar, words of obscure
origin. For all we know, Japanese or Sumerian or even English might be
descended from an ancient creole whose origins are now far beyond our powers
of recovery. Some languages really do have beginnings.
Mixed languages
The term mixed language has often been applied very broadly and loosely to
just about any language which has been significantly affected by another
language. For example, English is a Germanic language, but its vocabulary,
as we have seen, has been immensely affected by Norman French, and substantially influenced by Latin, Greek and Modern French. Some people would
therefore say that English is a ‘mixed language’. But linguists do not use the
term in such a broad way. The problem with this broad use is that there are
practically no languages which have not been strongly affected by other languages, and therefore, in this broad sense, there are practically no ‘unmixed
languages’.
In linguistics, the term mixed language is used in a much narrower and more
specific way. For linguists, a mixed language is a language which is constructed
by combining large chunks of material from two (or more) quite distinct
languages, in such a way that we cannot reasonably say that any one language
is the direct ancestor of the resulting mixture. English does not qualify as a
mixed language, because, in spite of the high levels of borrowed vocabulary, we
can easily trace the ancestry of English in a continuous line back through
Middle English, Old English, North Sea Germanic, Proto-Germanic and so
on, all the way back to Proto-Indo-European. With a truly mixed language, we
could not do this. (In fact, because of the troubled history of the label mixed
language, some linguists now prefer to speak instead of intertwined languages,
but I’ll avoid that label here.)
Which is the oldest language?
177
At least since the late nineteenth century, linguists have wondered whether
any true mixed languages exist. One difficult language after another has been put
forward as a candidate mixed language, but in almost every case the awkward
language has eventually been shown to be a language with a clear ancestry. For
example, a number of languages spoken in and near New Guinea exhibit
complicated mixtures of features taken from the Papuan languages of New
Guinea and from the far-flung Austronesian family, which stretches from
Madagascar to Hawaii and Easter Island. For a while, linguists suspected that
these ‘difficult’ languages might have originated in the not-too-distant past as
genuine mixtures of Papuan and Austronesian elements. Today, though, there is
general satisfaction that every one of these problem languages can be shown to
be either a Papuan language heavily affected by Austronesian or an Austronesian
language heavily affected by Papuan. The point is that, in each case, we can work
out which one of these possibilities is the right answer, and so we have no need to
appeal to a hypothetical ‘mixing’ process some time in the past.
Other cases are more difficult. In Ecuador, there is a language called Media
Lengua, which consists of vocabulary taken almost entirely from Spanish embedded in a grammar taken entirely from the local language Quechua; in the Bering
Strait, we find Copper Island Aleut, in which the verb-forms are taken almost
entirely from Russian but the rest of the language is taken from the local language
Aleut, a relative of the Eskimo languages; in Tanzania, we find Ma’a, which
consists of vocabulary taken mostly from the local Cushitic languages embedded
in an almost wholly Bantu grammar. These languages, and several others like
them, really do look like genuine examples of mixed languages: they seem to
have been assembled, apparently deliberately, by combining large chunks of
material from two quite distinct languages in a more-or-less orderly manner.
But there have been a few quibbles raised about each of these examples, so I
will pass over them here to another language. A few years ago, linguists
discovered a language which is beyond any dispute or quibble an ironclad
example of a truly mixed language: Michif, spoken along the border between
the United States and Canada, in Saskatchewan, Manitoba and North Dakota.
The speakers of Michif call themselves the Métis, and Michif is the mother
tongue of some hundreds of people. It is learned in childhood as the first
language, and it is the everyday language of the home in its community, but
today all adult speakers of Michif are fully fluent in English, which they use in
talking to outsiders.
Michif consists almost entirely of a mixture of sounds, words and grammar
taken from just two languages: a local Canadian variety of French, and the
Algonquian language Cree. But the mixture could hardly be more orderly. All
the verbs and verb-forms are taken from Cree, while all the nouns, adjectives
and articles are taken from French. (Grammatical words like ‘this’, ‘what?’,
‘many’ and ‘behind’ are taken from both languages, however.) All the Cree
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Why Do Languages Change?
elements are constructed from a set of Cree consonants and vowels. But all the
French elements are constructed from a quite different set of French consonants
and vowels. So, for example, the distinctive French front rounded vowels, as in
lune ‘moon’ and deux ‘two’, and the French nasal vowels, as in in bon ‘good’
and vin ‘wine’, occur in the French parts of the Michif vocabulary, but not in the
Cree parts, because Cree doesn’t have them – though Cree has a different set of
nasal vowels, which occur in the Cree part of the vocabulary. This observation
points to the heart of the mixed origins of Michif: there exists no unmixed
language on earth in which half the vocabulary is built from one set of speech
sounds and the other half from a different set of speech sounds.
But this is only the start. French nouns have grammatical gender. Each
French noun must be assigned to one of the two genders, called ‘masculine’
and ‘feminine’, and words connected grammatically to a noun, such as articles
and adjectives, must agree with the noun in gender. All this is imported into
Michif: a Michif noun must bear a French gender, masculine or feminine, and
other words must agree with a noun in French gender.
Cree, like all Algonquian languages, also has grammatical gender, but the
Algonquian system is quite different from the French one. Cree has two
genders, traditionally called ‘animate’ and ‘inanimate’, and every Cree noun
must be assigned to one or the other. Although the noun elements in Michif are
French-based, Cree verbs must agree in gender with their subject or object – and
all the verb-forms in Michif are Cree. So, in order for the verb agreement to be
achieved in Michif, every noun must be assigned a Cree gender as well as a
French gender. This fact makes Michif perhaps the only language in the world in
which every noun must be assigned two unrelated and independent genders,
each required for different grammatical purposes.
But how is all this gender assignment done? One thing is clear: the Cree
gender of a Michif noun is not predictable from its French gender, and vice
versa. The two gender assignments are independent, and clearly a speaker of
Michif must learn each of the two genders of a noun separately. Predicting the
French gender of a Michif noun is easy: with just a handful of exceptions, the
French gender of a Michif noun is the same as its gender in French. But, since
the nouns in Michif are all taken from French, and not from Cree, how do they
get their Cree gender? This is still something of a mystery.
Below I present some example sentences in Michif, in a rather ‘rough-andready’ orthography of my own invention (Michif is not normally written; the
transcription system used by scholars is too complex for these purposes.) The
nasal vowels I have marked with a superscript tilde, as in <ã>. The Cree parts of
a Michif sentence are printed in italics, while the French parts are in roman type.
Since you probably don’t know any Cree, I haven’t explained the Cree parts in
much detail, but you may know some French, so I’ve provided a few comments
for the French elements.
Which is the oldest language?
179
(1) kiimichimineew aatiht larzhã
he-held-it
some money
‘He kept part of the money.’ (French l’argent ‘the money’)
(2) kiiteepishkam
ee-la-mitres-iwit
she-succeeded-at-it that-the-teacher-was
‘She succeeded in becoming a teacher.’ (French la maîtresse ‘the teacher’)
(3) kii-li-fu-iwiw
ee-li-pchi-iwit
was-the-crazy-he-was that-the-little-he-was
‘He was crazy when he was little.’ (French fou ‘crazy’ and petit ‘little’)
(4) bakwataawak li mũd kaakimutichik
I-hate-them the people that-they-steal
‘I hate people who steal.’ (French le monde ‘the world’)
(5) li bon mark a likol
mishimiyustamihikuw
the good mark at the-school make-him-very-happy
‘Good marks in school make him very happy.’ (French bon ‘good’, à ‘at’,
l’école ‘the school’)
(6) aatiht manisha li brash dã li zaabr uhchi
some cut-off! the branch on the tree from
‘Cut off some of the branches from the tree!’ (French les branches ‘the
branches’, dans ‘in’, les arbres ‘the trees’)
(7) la zhymãã kiiayaaweew ã pchi pulã
the mare she-had-it
a little foal
‘The mare had a foal.’ (French la jument ‘the mare’, un petit poulain ‘a little
foal’)
How did Michif come into existence? There is really only one explanation that
makes any sense: Michif was deliberately created, some generations ago, by a
group of people who were fluently bilingual in French and Cree. Though these
people had two languages, each of those languages was spoken also by quite a
few other people, and the early Métis had no language of their own. So they
decided to create one, in order to give themselves an identity. But they weren’t
content to change just one word, or just one feature of grammar or pronunciation. Instead, they constructed a new language, one which could not possibly be
spoken or understood by anyone outside their community. They began speaking
this constructed language exclusively, and they taught their construct, and
nothing else, to their children, who acquired it as their mother tongue. This
account is confirmed by the oral traditions maintained by today’s Métis. This
decision was final and irreversible: few Michif speakers can speak French today,
and almost none can speak Cree.
Michif is therefore a language – a mother tongue – which does not descend in
the ‘ordinary’ way from an unlimited string of ancestors extending back into the
past without limit. Given the facts, we cannot reasonably describe Michif as a
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Why Do Languages Change?
variety of French heavily influenced by Cree, nor as a variety of Cree heavily
influenced by French. Michif was deliberately and self-consciously constructed
by the early Métis, at a date which is not known for certain, but was most likely
around two centuries ago.
Sign languages
There is one more circumstance we know of in which mother tongues have been
created, without descending from any earlier languages, but this case is very
different from the others, because it doesn’t involve spoken languages.
Deaf people cannot hear speech, and so they find it very difficult, or even
impossible, to learn and use a spoken language. A deaf person isolated among
speakers may fail to acquire any language at all – a tragedy which has been
repeated countless times in human history. But, when a group of deaf people
can somehow manage to get together, the outcome is very different. The deaf
people can create a sign language – a language which is expressed through
the medium of signs produced with the hands, the face and other parts of the
upper body.
We need to clarify this notion of a sign language a little. Many people have
assumed – and most professional linguists, to our embarrassment, shared this
ignorant prejudice until only a few decades ago – that the sign languages used
by deaf people are no more than crude and clumsy auxiliary systems, lacking in
expressive power and probably derivative of spoken languages. Well, such
crude and derivative auxiliary systems really do exist. A good example is
Signed English, or Manually Coded English, a system for converting English
into manual gestures. Signed English is a kind of halfway house: it is no one’s
mother tongue, and it is not a real language, but it is easier for English speakers
to learn than is a real sign language, and it is easier for deaf people to learn than
is English, and so it finds a place as a gadget allowing communication between
English speakers and deaf people. But Signed English is not what we are
interested in here.
True sign languages are created by communities of deaf people, when they
get the opportunity to form them. True sign languages are the mother tongues –
if you will pardon the inappropriate metaphor – of their users. True sign
languages are real languages in every sense.
A true sign language has a large and expressive vocabulary, and it has ways of
creating new words whenever new words are called for. A true sign language
has a rich and elaborate grammar, just as rich and elaborate as the grammar of
any spoken language. A true sign language permits anything that a spoken
language allows: statements, commands, questions, requests for help, the
expression of emotions such as joy, anger and excitement, the telling of stories,
jokes, puns, insults, obscenities – anything you can think of. And, like any
Which is the oldest language?
181
spoken language, of course, a true sign language is constantly changing, as its
users keep modifying it to suit their purposes, and so after a while it develops
regional dialects.
Several dozen true sign languages are known to exist, though it seems likely
that there are many others which we have not yet discovered. Very few of these
have so far been studied in any detail at all, and our knowledge of sign
languages is woefully behind our knowledge of spoken languages. Among
the best studied at present are American Sign Language (ASL), used in the
USA, and British Sign Language (BSL), used in Britain. ASL and BSL have
different origins, and users of one can understand the other only about as well as
they can understand Chinese Sign Language. Neither of them is related in any
way to English. Both of them have grammars which are about as different as can
be from the grammar of English, and in fact it has often been remarked that they
are grammatically rather similar to certain indigenous languages of North
America, such as Hopi.
Let’s look at a typical example of sign-language grammar, from BSL.
Figure 8.1(a) shows the ordinary sign for ‘walk’. To express ‘walk’ in BSL,
you push one hand forward in three little jerks while simultaneously waggling
two fingers of that hand. So far, this is easy.
(a) WALK
(d) ABOUT-TO-WALKBUT-DIDN’T
Slow reduplication
Fast reduplication
(b) KEEP-ON-WALKING
(c) WALK-OFTEN
(e) WALK-WITH-EASE
Figure 8.1 The BSL sign for ‘walk’
(f) WALK-WITH-DIFFICULTY
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Why Do Languages Change?
But now comes a bit of grammar. If you repeat (‘reduplicate’) the ‘walk’ sign
slowly, the resulting sign means ‘keep on walking’, as in Figure 8.1(b). If,
however, you repeat the ‘walk’ sign quickly, the result means ‘walk often’, as in
Figure 8.1(c). In BSL, you can do this with any sign of suitable meaning in order
to express ‘keep on doing’ or ‘do often’. This is how the grammars of sign
languages typically work: where English adds extra words to obtain extra
meaning, sign languages simply modify the signs.
Figure 8.1(d) shows another grammatical modification of the ‘walk’ sign.
This time the ‘walk’ sign is produced just once, and briefly. At the same time –
and crucially – the eyes are directed sideways or down, and the mouth is opened
abruptly. All this produces what sign-language grammarians call the ‘inhibitive
aspect’ of the sign. The meaning of this aspect, applied to the ‘walk’ sign, is
‘about to walk but didn’t’. So, where English requires something like Susie was
about to walk out of the door but then she stopped abruptly, BSL needs only to
attach the appropriate grammatical modification to the ‘walk’ sign.
Note in particular the crucial role of the face in producing this piece of
grammar. In every sign language so far examined, the face is at least as
important as the hands, and in fact it is the face which carries a great deal of
the sign language’s grammar. Interestingly, when two signers are having a
conversation, they do not look directly at each other’s hands: they look at
each other’s faces.
Figures 8.1(e) and (f) illustrate two more grammatical modifications of the
‘walk’ sign. The first shows the sign meaning ‘walk easily’. Although the
picture doesn’t show this well, the face is again central: the head and the face
are relaxed; the eyes are wide and the eyebrows are slightly raised; and the head
tilts from side to side in rhythm with the walking movement of the fingers. The
second figure shows the expression of ‘walk with difficulty’. This time the head
is held rigid; the mouth is tense with the lips spread and pulled back; and the
eyebrows are lowered.
Why, then, are there apparently no large families of sign languages comparable to the Germanic or Celtic families of spoken languages? Well, there is no
reason in principle why such sign-language families should not exist, but there
are formidable difficulties in practice. In order to be used and maintained, a sign
language requires a community of users – in practice, deaf users – who interact
with one another every day. However, because of indifference and prejudice on
the part of the hearing majority, deaf people have typically found it next to
impossible to maintain their own communities and to use their sign languages
regularly. As a result, there is no known sign language in use today whose roots
can be traced back more than a couple of centuries, at best.
Sign languages, like spoken languages, can in principle give rise to pidgins,
creoles and mixed languages. Only seldom, however, are circumstances favourable to such developments, but cases do exist.
Which is the oldest language?
183
One good example of a pidgin sign language is International Sign Language,
or ISL, formerly known as Gestuno. ISL is not quite a canonical pidgin, since it
largely results from decisions taken consciously by committees, but structurally
and functionally it is a pidgin.
ISL is no one’s mother tongue. Its grammar is limited and far from fixed. It is
primarily a collection of agreed individual signs, and it is intended to permit
basic communication among signers who have no language in common – just
like any pidgin. At present, its degree of standardisation is modest, and signers
from different countries often use it in ways that are different enough to produce a
measure of difficulty in understanding. Nevertheless, it finds considerable use at
international gatherings of signers, even though some signers dislike it greatly,
finding it more of a headache than simply learning somebody else’s sign language.
But we do know one spectacular case of a sign language creole: Nicaraguan
Sign Language, or NSL. The story of NSL is breathtaking and inspiring.
For decades, the hapless Central American republic of Nicaragua was the
personal fiefdom of a local gangster named Anastasio Somoza. Somoza’s
corrupt, brutal and thoroughly criminal regime was dedicated only to maintaining his grip on power and to stuffing as much of the country’s wealth as possible
into his Swiss bank account. The Nicaraguan educational system was starved of
money, and the hundreds of deaf children in the country were ignored – shut
away in back rooms and forgotten.
Then, in 1979, a popular revolution toppled the regime and drove the hated
Somoza into exile. The new government tackled the huge job of repairing the
incalculable damage done to the country by decades of criminal control.
Discovering the existence of the deaf children, the government decided to
collect these children and to bring them together in a special school.
The plan was to teach the children to lip-read and to speak Spanish. But this
plan, well-meaning though it was, was a failure – as such plans usually are.
However, the failure didn’t matter – because the authorities, almost by accident,
had already done the one thing that really needed to be done: they had brought
the deaf children together.
In no time, the children began creating a set of signs and using these new
signs to communicate among themselves. Before their teachers had realised
what was happening, the children were gesticulating feverishly. Like any group
of people who need to communicate without having a language in common, the
children had invented a pidgin – in this case, a pidgin sign language. But the
new invention did not remain a pidgin for long.
Further deaf children arrived at the school. Finding the pidgin in use, these
new arrivals at once adopted the pidgin as their mother tongue. And, as always
happens in such cases, the new native users at once expanded and elaborated the
language, with a host of new grammar and new vocabulary, so that they could
chat effortlessly about anything they liked.
184
Why Do Languages Change?
Today NSL has several hundred native signers, and the number of these
signers is growing. And the world has a new language. In 1979, Nicaraguan
Sign Language did not exist in any form at all, not even in the form of a
rudimentary pidgin. The deaf children of Nicaragua were isolated from one
another, and they had nothing resembling a common language. But now NSL
exists and is used every day, just like any other language – and, to its native
signers, it is every bit as important as English or Chinese.
As one grinning little boy confessed to a BBC camera, ‘Before, I had no
language, and I couldn’t talk. Now, I have a language, and I can talk to my
friends.’ If the Nicaraguan revolutionaries never achieved anything else, they
can take credit for this little contribution to human happiness.
NSL is therefore a very rare case of a brand-new language which we have
almost managed to watch coming into existence. Not quite, because it was a few
years before anybody realised that there was something remarkable going on,
and before linguists arrived on the scene to see what was happening. But never
before have we come so close to seeing a wholly new mother tongue spring into
existence before our eyes. The truly striking point of this is that is very likely
that processes of this kind have happened repeatedly for deaf people.
Summary
We have looked at the several special cases of languages that do have beginnings: artificial languages, pidgins, creoles, mixed languages and sign languages. Not all these are mother tongues, but some of them are, and so we are
obliged to acknowledge that, in certain circumstances, a mother tongue can
have a beginning, and we can therefore sensibly ask of that language ‘How old
is it?’ The creole Sranan was apparently born in the seventeenth century; the
mixed language Michif was probably created in the first half of the nineteenth
century; and Nicaraguan Sign Language was very definitely constructed in a
matter of years after 1979. But these are special cases, and they are exceptions.
The overwhelming majority of human languages are, as far as we can tell, of the
same age. None is any older than any other.
Some final thoughts
Language change is inevitable
There is nothing anyone can do to avoid it: the only unchanging language is a
language without native speakers, such as Classical Latin or Sanskrit.
Languages of this type may be of considerable importance within certain
cultures, but they are retained as a heritage item, rather than an integral part of
everyone’s experience from early childhood. Moreover, there was a time when
languages of this type were true languages: at that time, these languages were as
given to change as any other natural language: we need only consider the
differences between early varieties of Latin and the Classical Latin many of
us learned at school to recognise this truth.
Language change is everywhere
As I hope I have shown in this book, everywhere we look we will find evidence
of language change. We can hear it in our own linguistic behaviour and in that of
people younger and older than us. We can see it in the names of places, whether
we understand them or not. We can perceive it in the books we read and the
reasons why we choose not to read books or plays which were once fashionable
and current. All we need to do to begin to do this is to ‘tune’ our inner ear to
recognise change; with further study, it becomes very difficult not to concentrate
on change in the past and the present.
We can often trace languages back into pre-history
As we have seen, the overwhelming majority of languages have ‘bloodlines’ in
the same way humans do. Like humans, some languages are blessed in having
three to four thousand years of recorded history behind them; most humans and
languages have a very limited recorded history. The time-depth is the same,
however. With sufficient experience of how languages can change, it is possible
to establish at least close relationships even between languages with few written
records. Sometimes, as has been the case with the geographically widespread
185
186
Why Do Languages Change?
Na-Dené family of western North America (which includes Apache and Navaho),
much has been achieved with practically no availability of earlier varieties.
But even with the better-charted language families, such as the venerable
Indo-European, much needs to be done to make sure that we fully understand
how one language became so many very different ones. The techniques upon
which this type of work is based are not secret: with some training they are open
to anyone interested. I want to stress this training again, however.
Many people with an interest in these matters have not studied how to use the
comparative method and therefore fall into the error of seeing coincidence as
being equivalent to relationship. As we have seen again and again, this is a
dangerous presupposition. Sadly, there are also some published writers who
have political or personal agendas which either encourage them to obscure
inconvenient truths or to build large theories – such as (to take particularly
unusual but expressed views) the origin of all human languages in the drowned
civilisation of Atlantis or in contact with advanced alien cultures – based upon
misunderstood and often singularly peripheral similarities between languages.
Naturally, the growth of the Internet has only encouraged the visibility of these
views by giving those interested greater exposure.
Humans lie at the centre of all change
When we discuss language change, it is sometimes convenient to speak about
changes or languages as if they were entities independent of speakers. This can
be misleading, however. The processes involved in most – probably all – change
are human-centred (even if individuals are not completely conscious of taking
part in change). Certainly, when we look at evidence for present-day linguistic
variation and change, we can actually see that choosing a particular variant
instead of another is normally triggered by the desire of a speaker to be
identified with a particular grouping within society, whether this is the overt
prestige of middle-class respectability or the covert prestige of working-class
solidarity and teenage in-group identity. If enough people make this type of
variant choice, the language will change. There is no reason to assume that this
was not the case in the past. While it is true that the ways in which societies
construct themselves differ markedly across time, humans probably change
little. Language change will always be a result of how individuals and groups
perceive themselves and their relation to others.
Further reading
A great deal of ground has been covered in this book; it would be very easy to fill twenty
pages or more with references and suggestions for further reading. I have decided,
however, to confine myself to suggesting a few studies which are readily available and
transparent to non-specialist readers. Further references can be derived from the bibliographies of any of the books cited here.
H I S TO R I C A L L I N G U I S T I C S
There is a vast amount of literature discussing language change, most of it fairly
impenetrable to non-specialists. A good introduction to the field is
Aitchison, Jean. 2001. Language Change: Progress or Decay? 3rd edn. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
More advanced, but still approachable are:
Campbell, Lyle. 2004. Historical Linguistics: An Introduction. 2nd edn. Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press.
McMahon, April. 1994. Understanding Language Change. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Millar, Robert McColl. 2007. Trask’s Historical Linguistics. London: Hodder Arnold.
INDO-EUROPEAN AND THE INDO-EUROPEANS
With the Indo-European languages and the origins of the Indo-Europeans, there is an
unfortunate gap between highly erudite works which require a considerable amount of
specialist knowledge and books whose populism blended with a lack of knowledge of
recent scholarship is deeply unfortunate. The following two books are approachable to
the non-specialist, however:
Clarkson, James. 2007. Indo-European Linguistics: An Introduction. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Giacalone Ramat, Anna and Paolo Ramat (eds.) 1998. Indo-European Languages.
London and New York: Routledge.
ETYMOLOGY
There are a number of very good etymological dictionaries available for English and
other languages. If you want to get the full story of how an English word’s meaning
187
188
Further reading
developed over time, the first place to look is the Oxford English Dictionary. Most
larger libraries in the English-speaking world will have a reference copy of this multivolume work. Many will also subscribe to the online version (www.oed.com), which is
being continually updated. Bear in mind, however, that, no matter how authoritative
the explanation of the origin of a word is, there is often room for scholarly disagreement. An excellent one-volume introduction to the etymology of English lexis can be
found in
Hughes, Geoffrey. 2000. A History of English Words. Oxford: Blackwell.
PLACE NAMES
There is no one scholarly resource which can give you the origin of all place names. Most
countries – or even regions within countries – will have had some kind of scholarly
survey carried out. Many works which you will find in libraries have been written by
independent scholars. This does not mean that they are by their nature flawed – indeed,
often the dedication given to their task by these scholars is humbling. It does mean that
the authors may not always be equipped with the same level of linguistic knowledge as
are professional scholars (although the latter inevitably make mistakes as well). As a
general rule, beware of easy explanations.
H I S TO RY O F T H E E N G L I S H L A N G U A G E
There are a plethora of books on this subject, most of them of a good standard. Perhaps
the best known and most used is
Baugh, Albert C. and Thomas Cable. 2002. A History of the English Language. 5th edn.
London: Routledge.
There are also a considerable number of books which discuss different stages in the
language’s history. Particularly good are the following introductory texts from the same
series:
Hogg, Richard M. 2002. An Introduction to Old English. Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press.
Horobin, Simon and Jeremy J. Smith. 2002. An Introduction to Middle English.
Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
Nevalainen, Terttu. 2006. An Introduction to Early Modern English. Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press.
A good – although now somewhat dated – history of English spelling is
Scragg, D. G. 1974. A History of English Spelling. Manchester: Manchester University
Press.
H I S TO RY O F W R I T I N G S Y S T E M S
There are many excellent surveys of the history of writing systems. Two I would strongly
recommend are:
Coulmas, Florian. 1989. The Writing Systems of the World. Oxford: Blackwell.
Rogers, Henry. 2005. Writing Systems: A Linguistic Approach. Oxford: Blackwell.
Further reading
189
L A N G U A G E C O N TA C T, ‘ N E W L A N G U A G E S ’ , P I D G I N S
AND CREOLES
Probably the best introductory discussion of language contact is
Thomason, Sarah Grey. 2001. Language Contact. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University
Press.
In recent years, there has been much discussion of the nature of pidgin and creole
genesis, meaning that there is often considerable disagreement over processes and
results. Nevertheless, a good (fairly conservative) introduction is
Holm, John A. 2000. An Introduction to Pidgins and Creoles. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
A discussion of Michif can be found in
Bakker, Peter. 1997. A Language of Our Own: The Genesis of Michif. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
The birth of Nicaraguan Sign Language is discussed in:
Senghas, Ann. 1995. Children’s Contribution to the Birth of Nicaraguan Sign Language.
Cambridge, Mass.: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Index
Académie française 30
acronyms, unlikely as word origins 52
adverbial -ly 24
Afghanistan 89
Afrikaans 158, 161
separation from Dutch 160
Albanian 89, 159, 168
Aleut 177
Copper Island Aleut 177
Alfred the Great, king of the West Saxons 11,
156, 157, 158, 159
alphabet, development of
abjad 165, 166
Arabic 167; use with South Asian Moslem
languages 167
Canaanite 165
Ethiopian 167
Hebrew 166, 168
Phoenician 166
Ugaritic 165
Indian literacy 167
Brahmi script 167; Burmese 167; Central
Asian scripts 167; Khmer 167; Lao 167;
Thai 167; Tibetan 167
full alphabet 166
Armenian 167, 168
Slavonic, Cyrillic 167
Etruscan 166
futhark 93, 94, 167
Georgian 167
Greek 166
Roman 166; Albanian 168; Basque 168;
English 167; Finnish 168; German 167;
Hungarian 168; Lithuanian 168;
Welsh 167
Iberian 166
ambiguity, avoidance of 54–5
American Chemical Society 107
American Sign Language 181
Anatolia, Celtic settlement 90
andabata (Gaulish) 44
Arάn, Basque place name outside present
Basque country 71
190
Armenian 89, 159, 167, 168
arrivederci (Italian) 23
arvo (afternoon; Australian), creation of 58
Aśoka, Mauryan emperor 167
at this moment in time 25
auf Wiedersehen (German) 23
au revoir (French) 23
Authorised Version, the (Bible; 1611) 103
Austen, Jane 7–11, 155
Austria, Celtic settlement 90
Australia 58, 75–6, 77, 85, 172
Austronesian 177
Balkans, the 89
Celtic settlement 90
Bantu languages 177
barbie (barbecue), creation of 58
Basque 32–3, 53–4, 55, 56–7, 71, 72, 78, 168
bat (in sport), problems with etymology 45–6
battalion, origin of 45
batten (down the hatches), origin of 44
batter, origin of 44
battery, origin of 44–5
battle, origin of 45
battuere (Latin) 44
bead 4–5, 27
bed 4
beefburger, creation of 60, 61
Bengali 159, 167
Bermuda, connection to name Pimlico 69
B-girl 4
bi (bisexual), creation of 58
bikini 39
reanalysis of 61
bimbo, origin of 40
bizarre, origin of 53–5
false Basque etymology 53–4
correct Italian etymology 54–5
blackmail, origin of 40
Blanchett, Cate 122
blurb, creation of 61
blusher, cosmetic 2
Bogart, Humphrey 1, 155
Index
Bohemia, Celtic settlement 90
boogie-woogie, origin of 49
borrowing, due to changes in the world 23
Boston 116, 117
origin of name 74
boy, problems with etymology 43
Boyle, Robert 156
bra
creation of 58
loss of informal nature 59
Bradman, Sir Donald 1
Brave New World 4
Breton 93
bridegroom 28
Bridgwater, origin of name 66
Brighton, origin of name 64–5
brim, origin and history 41
Bristol, origin of name 72, 74
British (language) 93
British Sign Language (BSL) 181–2
Brontë, Charlotte 9
brunch, formation of 60
budgie, creation of 58
bug (computer), origin of 49, 50–1
Burgess, Anthony 1
Burgess, Gelett, creator of blurb 60, 61
burgle, back-formation of 60
bus
compounds possible (bus stop) 59
creation of 58
inflections possible 59
loss of informal nature 59
butterfly, problems with etymology 42–3
bustle, item of underwear 4
By Jingo, non-Basque origins of 55
Byron, Lord George Gordon, creation
of darkle 62
California 116
Canada 85, 117, 177
carhop 4
cat and cut in RP 15
Caxton, William 101, 146
Cedar Valley, as an inappropriate name 65
cello
creation of 58
loss of informal nature 59
Celtic origins of British place names 71
examples 71
chads (pregnant), problems with the origin
of 51–3
Champers (Champagne; upper-middle-class
British), creation of 59
Champollion, Jean-François 162
chapparal, origin of 56
191
charts, the 4
Chaucer, Geoffrey 11, 100, 101, 156, 159
chef (French), origin of 40
cherry, back-formation of 60
Chinese 143, 155
writing, development of 166,
168, 184
Churchill, Sir Winston 155
cig (cigarette), creation of 58
Coates, Richard 67–70
Coca-colonisation 86
Cockney dialect 38
Colette 82
colour distribution
Basque 32–3
English 33–4
orange 33–4
pink 34
comparative method 87
conservatism, linguistic 9
Coptic 162
Cornish 84, 93
Corrie (Coronation Street; British soap opera),
creation of 58
cosmetics, changing names of 1–2
cot and caught 12–14
Coward, Noël 1
creation of words 57
back-formation 60
blending 60
clipping 58–60, 148
compound formation possible 59
change in meaning from unclipped
form 59
complex 59
diminutive suffix -ers/-er (upper-middleclass British) 59
diminutive suffix -ie or -y 58
diminutive suffix (Australian) -o 58
diminutive suffix (popular British) -s 59
dismissive meaning of some clipped
forms 59
found in dictionaries 59
informality of some clipped forms in
comparison to unclipped 59
real words 59
from nothing 60, 61–2
mumpsimus, misinterpretation of word 62
reanalysis 60–1
Cree, Michif 177–80
croc
compounds possible (croc handler) 59
creation of 58
inflections possible 59
Cushitic languages 177
192
Index
Dalmatian 159
Danish 159
darkle, new form created from darkling 62
darkling, misinterpretation by Byron 61, 62
Darwin, Charles 155
Davis, Bette 1, 118, 122
Davy, Sir Humphry 107
Day, Doris 118–19
delope 4
Denison, David 8
Denmark 93
dental fricatives and Type O blood 19–20
Dickens, Charles 8
diff (difference), creation of 58
discs, compact 2
Dixon, Bob 75
diss (disrespect), inflections possible 59
Dniepr, Iranian origin of 70
Dniester, Iranian origin of 70
Don (Ukraine), Iranian origin of 70
Donets, Iranian origin of 70
Dutch 158, 159, 174
ear (of corn), origin of 40
ear (on head), origin of 40
Edgbaston, origin of name 64
Edison, Thomas and the origin of bug 51
edit, back-formation of 60
Elizabeth I, queen of England 66, 122
English 155, 156–7, 158, 184
English, American vs British 11, 106–29
grammatical differences 106, 123–8
can’t have vs must have 128
cater 128
collective nouns 126
compound nouns 127–8
different 128
got vs gotten 128
have, auxiliary 128
immediately 128
in case 128
present perfect 125–6
shall, use of 128
subjunctive 124–5
your one vs yours 128
lexical differences 106, 108–12
film 111–16
geography 108
selection 109
separation 109–12
transport 110–11
pronunciation differences 116–23
bath-broadening 119–20
cot and caught 12–14
codify 123
controversy 123–8
geographical spread in America 116–17
granary 123
miscellany 123
/r/-dropping 117–18
spelling pronunciation 120–1
stress retraction 106, 122–3
tomato 123
/t/-tapping 118–19
unrounding of the pot vowel 106
spelling distinctions 106, 111–16
aluminum 107–8
artifact vs artefact 116
codification, eighteenth century 113; in
Britain 113; in America 114–15
connection vs connexion 116
-er vs -re 114
fetus vs foetus 116
-ise vs -ize 113
-l- vs -ll- 115
millipede vs millepede 116
-or vs -our 115
sulfur vs sulphur 116
English, global language 84
English, global languages in 1600 85
English, history of language 84–105
borrowing, receptiveness to 103–4
French influence upon 28, 98–100, 103, 176
centrality of English vocabulary in later
English 100
French culture dominant 98
later Central French borrowing 102, 176
prestige of French vocabulary 29–30,
99–100
replacement of Old English vocabulary
98–9
vocabulary borrowed 100
Greek influence 176
Latin influence 102–3, 176
‘inkhorn’ words 102
maturity in Renaissance 103
Middle English 157
Modern English 157
early Modern English 157
Old English 94–5, 157
Runic futhark 94
symbols, special alphabetic 94
purism 103–5
Ayenbite of Inwit 104
Barnes, William 104
Jennings, Paul (in jest) 104–5
resurgence of English 100
Scandinavian influence upon 95–8
considerable settlement in the English
midlands 95, 96
Index
differences in influence across
England 95
intense settlement in northern England 95
invasion and settlement 95
lexical borrowing 95, 96–8
mutual intelligibility? 95, 96
small settlement in the south and west of
England 95, 96–8
structural influence 98; Middle English 3rd
person pronouns 98
standardisation 101
continuing prestige of Latin and French 101
printing, influence of 101
English, influence over other languages; in
particular, French 30–1
English, myth of unchanging 1
English, sociolinguistic position in 1600 84–5
English, spelling 111, 112, 113, 130–53
chaotic ‘system’ 130–3
codification, eighteenth century 113
in Britain 113
in America 114–15
eccentricities
aisle, island, isle 146
build 146
come, some, son, love, etc. 147–8
could, should, would 145
delight 145
ghost 146
‘Latinising’ spellings of French
borrowings 145–6
-os vs -oes plurals 144–5
potato 144
rhyme vs rime 147
word-final <-v> 148–9
zinc 146
historical spellings 136–7
<ea> vs <ee> 137
<kn> 136
<-oo-> 137
pretty 137
<wr> 136
<-gh-> 136
Greek (Classical) influence upon 140–1
joint Greek and Latin influences 141;
fetid 141; fetus 141
ptarmigan 140
history of alphabetic system 133–6
<Q> 134
Roman alphabetic heritage 133–5; <C> and
<G> 134; transliterations from
Greek 134
shortage of letters 133
<v> and <j> 134–5
<w> 135
193
Latin influence upon 139–40
joint Latin and Greek influences
141; fetid 141; fetus 141
reinforcement of French models 139
logographic system, move towards 152
morphemic spelling 138–9
Norman French influence 137–9
<c>, use of 138
<g>, use of 138
<-ie-> vs <-ei-> 138
<qu>, introduction of 138
<v>, use of 139
/Z/, introduction of 139
‘phonetic’ representations of words from
other languages 141–4
Irish and Scottish Gaelic 142
reform? 149–52
spelling innovations in other European
languages 135–6
Textspeak 152–3
transliterations from non-Roman alphabet
languages 141
Arabic 144
Chinese 143; south Chinese lexis 143
Greek, modern 143
Japanese 143
Russian 142–3
transliterations from Roman alphabet
languages 141
English, spread of language after 1600
85–6
American ‘victory’ in the First World War 86
Industrial Revolution as factor 85
throughout the American ‘Empire’ 85–6
Africa 85
Australia 85
Caribbean 85
eastern seaboard of North America 85
Hong Kong 85
India 85
Malaya 85
Mediterranean 85
Middle East 85
New Zealand 85
Pacific 85
Singapore 85
south Atlantic 85
Virginia 85
English, twentieth- and twenty-first-century
popular culture 86
spelling system 11
Eskimo 177
Essex 94
‘Estuary English’ 18
euphemism, sexual 7, 26–7
194
Index
Faeroese 159
female address terms, changes in
English 27
feminism 3–4
flack 4
flivver 4
flower and flour, origin of 40
flu, creation of 58
folk etymology 28
fortuitous, misinterpretation 28–9
fortunate 28
fragrance, verb 2
France 85
Celtic settlement 90
French 72, 155, 161
former international language 84, 85
Michif 177–80
nasal vowels and the weather 20–1
reaction to English influence 30–1
invention of ‘English’ words 31–8
see also English, history of language
fridge
compounds possible (fridge magnet) 59
creation of 58
inflections possible 59
informal nature of 59
Friends, television series 17, 86
Frisian 158, 159
funk (popular music), origin of 49, 50–1
Gaelic, Scottish 84
Galatians, Celtic people 90
Gambia 27
garbo (garbage collector; Australian),
creation of 58
Garbo, Greta 83
garlic, origin of 39
gator, creation of 58
geography cannot explain change 21
Germany 93
Celtic settlement 90
German
former international language 84
High 159
Low 158, 159
geopathic, creation of 57
Germanic 90–1, 158, 159
Britain 92–4
‘Dark Ages’ 92–3
Germanic settlement 93; Angles 93, 94;
Frisians 93; Jutes 93; Saxons 93, 94
contact with Greeks and Romans 91–2
invasions of empire 92
Germanic borrowings in Romance
languages 92
survival of Germanic dialects within
former empire 92
switch to Latin 92
dispersal 91
eastern 91; Gothic 159; settlement 91
northern 91; settlement 91
western 91
First Germanic Consonant Shift
(Grimm’s Law) 91
grammar 90
grammatical innovations 90
homeland 90
lexis 90
North-Sea Germanic 93, 158, 159
Runic futhark 93, 94, 167
survival of German in Italy 92
survival of Gothic in Crimea 92
see also English; German
geyser, origin of 55
Gibson girl 4
gig, origin of 49
girl, problems with etymology 44
Godfather, The 86
going to construction 27–8
goodbye 23
googol
creation of 61
googolplex, derivative of googol 61
gorilla, origin of 40–1
Gower, John 100, 101
grammar and glamour 5–6
granny (grandmother), creation of 58
Greek 72–3, 89, 159
see also English, history of language;
language age; history of recorded
languages
Greenland, origin of name 65
Grimm, Jacob 91
grimoire 5
guesstimate, formation of 60
Gujarati 167
Gym
compounds possible (gym shoes) 59
creation of 58
inflections possible 59
hamburger, reanalysis of 60, 61–2
hankie
creation of 58
informal nature of 59
Hayworth, Rita 83
Harry Potter 5
head, origin of 40
helpmeet, misinterpretation of 62
Hepburn, Katharine 118
Index
heroin 39
Hindi-Urdu 167
Hippo
creation of 58
informal nature of 59
hit parade 4
Hittite 159
hodie (Latin) > aujourd’hui (French)
24–5
Home and Away, soap opera 17
Hopper, Dr Grace Murray, and the origin
of bug 50
Huns 92, 93
Huxley, Aldous 4
/hw/-loss 15–16
Icelandic 159
Illyrian 159
‘I’m like’ construction 10–11
Indo-Europeans and Indo-European 86–8,
158, 159
agriculture 88
belief system 88
culture 87
dispersal 88–90
Albanian 89
Anatolian 89; Hittite 89
Armenian 89
Baltic 89
Celtic 89–90; metallurgy 90
Dacian 89
Germanic, see separate entry
Greek 89
Illyrian 89
Indo-Iranian 89; Indic 89; Iranian 89
Italic 89
Macedonian 89
Slavonic 89; Old Church Slavonic 168
Thracian 89
Tocharian 89
grammar 87
horse-based culture 88
homeland 86
metallurgy 87
numerals 87
pastoralism 88
phonology 87
social organisation 87
infomercial, commercial formation of 60
intercourse 6–7
Iran 89
Iranian speakers on Pontic Steppe 70–1
Irish 85, 159
Italy 85, 92, 159
Celtic settlement 90
195
jai alai, history of word 56
Japanese 176
jazz, origin of 46–9
jelly roll, origin of 49
Johnson, Dr Samuel 1, 113
juke, origin of 49
Kacirk, Jeffrey 6
Kasner, Edward, role in creation of
googol 61
Keats, John 12–14
Kelly, Grace 118
Kennedy, John F. 1
Kurdish 159
Langland, William 100, 101
language age 154–69
descent of languages 154–5
descent of speakers 155
history of recorded languages 161–9
Cherokee 168
Chinese 166, 168, 184
Cree 168
hieroglyphics, Egyptian 162–3, 164,
166, 167
Hittite 165
Indian languages, modern 168
Indus Valley civilisation 164
Japanese 168
Korean 168
Linear A 165
Linear B 165, 166
Maldivian scripts 167
Meroitic 167
Mexican, early literacy 167
Mayan 167
Ogham 167
Persian 167
proto-Elamite 164
reasons for relative lateness of
writing 163
South American languages, modern 168
Sumerian 163–4, 166, 167; see also
Sumerian
syllabary 165
West African languages, modern 168
languages change over time 155–6
no language older than another 161
separation 156–60
Afrikaans 160
English as a unit 156–7, 158–9; ‘problem’
of American 157; ‘problem’ of
Scots 157
Latin as a unit 158; its Romance daughters
159–60; no discontinuity 160
196
Index
language change 19–38
explanations
analogy 34–6
change can increase or decrease
complexity 21–2
change in the world 22–3
emphasis and clarity 24–6
group identity 36–8
‘laziness’ 23–4
misunderstanding 27–9
myths 19–22
politeness 26–7
prestige and pretentiousness 29–31
structural reasons 31–8
fashion 3–4
grammar 7–11
ongoing change 10
meaning 4–7
pronunciation 11–18
languages with beginnings 169–84
artificial languages 169–70
Esperanto 170
Interlingua 170
Klingon 170
Tolkien’s languages 170
Volapük 170
creoles 174–6, 182
descent from pidgins 174
Sranan 174–6
mixed languages 176–80, 182
Copper Island Aleut 177
English? 176
Ma’a 177
Media Lengua 177
Michif 180; origins 179
New Guinean languages? 177
pidgins 170–4, 182, 183
elaborated pidgins 172–4; Tok Pisin
172–4, 175
lexifier language 172, 174
unelaborated pidgins 170–1; Russenorsk
171, 172
sign languages 180
American Sign Language (ASL) 181
British Sign Language (BSL) 181; structure
181–2
Chinese Sign Language 181
International Sign Language (ISL;
formerly Gestuno) 183
lack of sign language families 182–4
Nicaraguan Sign Language (NSL) 183–4;
pidgin stage 183
Signed English/Manually Coded English 180
Latin 93, 159
Lear, Edward, creator of runcible 62
Lebanon 27
let ‘allow’ vs let ‘hinder’ 25
lez (lesbian) dismissive nature of clipped form 59
lezzy (lesbian) dismissive nature of clipped
form 59
Lincoln, Abraham 1, 155
Lithuanian 159
love-in 4
Low Countries, Celtic settlement 90
lucky 28
Madonna (Ciccone, Madonna) 83
mag (magazine), creation of 58
Manitoba 177
Manx 85
Mark II computer and the origin of bug, 50
mascara, cosmetic 2
Massachusetts 106
Maxwell, James Clerk 82, 83
Meitner, Lise 82
Mencken, H. L. 157
Mersey, Anglo-Saxon origin of 71
Métis 177
Michif 179, 180
Middlesex 94
milko (milkman; Australian), creation of 58
mini-, prefix created by reanalysis 61
miniature, reanalysis of 61, 62
minimum, reanalysis of 61
miniskirt, creation of 61, 62
Mississippi, origin of name 67
mob
creation of 58
loss of informal nature 59
use in Australia 58
monokini, creation of 61
Monroe, Marilyn 1, 83, 118, 155
words known and unknown to her 2–3
motel, formation of 60
Mount Pleasant (London), origin of name 66
Netherlands 93
New England 116
New York City 116, 117, 118
New Zealand 85
nipple, problems with etymology 43
nightmare, origin of 39
Nicaragua 183
revolution in 1979; effect on deaf
community 183
Nicaraguan Sign Language (NSL) 183–4
Nin, Anaïs 82
Norn 84
North Carolina 85, 116
connection to name Pimlico 68
Index
North Dakota 177
Norse influence on English 1
Northern Cities Shift 15
Norwegian 155, 159
noun plurals in English, analogy 34, 35–6
nylon, creation of 61, 62
occupy, history of 41–2
Olivier, Laurence 1
Owl and the Pussycat, The, 62, 63
Oxford English Dictionary 120
Oxford University Press, spelling policy 114
paint, cosmetic 1–2
palatalisation, English 31–2
Palm Springs, as an inappropriate name 65
Papuan languages 133–6, 177
Papua New Guinea 172, 177
Paralympics, formation of 60
Paston Letters 113
past tense in English verbs, analogy 35
pea, back-formation of 60
penguin, problems with etymology 42
Pepys, Samuel 8
perfect aspect, English 9
Philadelphia 116–23
phone, creation of 58
Pimlico, origin of name 67–70
pocket pistol 4
place names,
Basque, outside present Basque country 71
Celtic, within Basque country 72
‘fading’ of names 73–7
in Europe 75; names of cities 75; names of
countries 75; names of mountain ranges
75; names of rivers 75
lack of ‘fading’ in Australia 75–6; if
similar elsewhere 76–7
New York 74
speed of ‘fading’ 75
Taj Mahal 74
French names in British Isles 72
incidental names
in Australia 77
in USA 77
origins and development of 64–83
methodology of 65, 70
newly discovered territory
New York State 80
extraterrestrial territory 80–3; planets and
moons 81; the surface of the Moon 81;
the surface of Venus 81–3
of the eastern United States
of European origin 71
of native origin 71
197
and politics 77–80
contemporary change to preferred native
names 79
competition between German and Polish
names 77
competition between Ayers Rock and
Uluru 78
English forms of Italian and French names 78
English language preference for Russian
over native Ukrainian names 78
Hawai’i 79–80
in Belgium 78–9
Mount Everest, names for 78
replacement of imperialist by native
African names 77
replacement of Spanish by Basque names 78
Scandinavian names in British Isles 72
examples 72
prehistory 70–3
Pope, Alexander 155
Prague, origin of name 67
pre-Greek language traces in Greek 72–3
common-noun evidence 73
place-name evidence 72
Presley, Elvis 86
prestige
covert 38
overt 38
prez (president) informal nature of 59
printing
introduction to Europe 101
introduction to England 101
promo (promotion), creation of 58
pronouns in English, avoidance of ambiguity 26, 98
progressive passive, in English 8–9
Quechua 176, 177
rabbit ears 4
Raleigh, Sir Walter 66, 85
connection to name Pimlico 68
ramble 39
/r/-dropping 11–12
Received Pronunciation (RP) 15, 19–20
see also English
reduction 24
reinforcement as a reaction 24–5
reffo (refugee; Australian), creation of 58
reinforcement 24–5
rhino, creation of 58
Robson, Flora 122
rock ’n’ roll, origin of 49
rockumentary, commercial formation of 60
Roller (Rolls-Royce; upper-middle-class
British), creation of 59
198
Index
rouge, cosmetic 2, 4
runcible, origin of 62–3
Russenorsk 171, 172
Russian 159, 176, 177
Sappho 82
Saskatchewan 177
sauna, origin of 55
Scott, Sir Walter 6
sculpt, back-formation of 60
Scrabble™ 59, 79, 144
Seaton, Matt 17
semantic change in the lucky field in English 28–9
Semitic 163–4, 166, 167
invention of the alphabet 133
Seppo (American; Australian), creation of 58
sexsational, commercial formation of 60
Shakespeare, William 1, 9, 11, 103, 113, 156, 159
shampoo, origin of 39
Shaw, George Bernard 106
Shetland, dialect 9
‘shortening’ 23
Shrewsbury, origin of name 66–7
silhouette, Basque origin of 56–7
silly 28
sit-in 4
ski, origin of 55
smoking, change in the vocabulary about 3
smog, formation of 60
smorgasbord, origin of 55
soccer (association football; upper-middle-class
British), creation of 59
Somoza, Anastasio 183
Spanish 159, 177
Spain 85, 159
Celtic settlement 90
spring, origin of 40
stadialism, problems with its acceptance 21–2
Stratton, origin of name 64
Sudan 27, 167
Sumerian 163–4, 166, 167, 176
adaptation for Semitic languages 164
Akkadian 164
Amorite 164
Eblaite 164
Elamite 164
Hurrian 164
Kassite 164
Urartian 164
use in the great Mesopotamian empires 164–5
Assyrian 164
Babylonian 164
see also language age
Suriname 174
Sussex 94
Swahili 155
Swedish, 159
Swift, Jonathan 155
Switzerland, Celtic settlement 90
Syria 89
tache (moustache), informal nature of 59
Tamil 167
Tannen, Deborah 18
Tanzania 177
telly (television; British)
creation of 58
informal nature of 59
the with country names 27
Tocharian A 159
Tok Pisin 172–4, 175
topless 3
tranny (transistor radio [British] vs transvestite),
creation of 58
turps (turpentine; popular British), creation of 59
tweed, mistaken creation of 62
Uey (U-turn; Australian) 58
Ukraine 27
ump (umpire; American) 58
umpy (umpire; Australian), creation of 58
uni (university), creation of 58
United States of America 85, 177
uptalk (high-rise terminals) 17–18
Urdu 167
varsity, change in meaning of clipped form 59
Ventris, Michael 165
Victoria, queen of Great Britain and Ireland 1,
111, 112
Virginia 106
Wantok 172
Washington, George 155, 156
Wayne, John 1
Webster, Noah 114–15
Welsh 84, 93
Wessex 94
whisky, origin of 39
Wilde, Oscar 155
will go to 24
women’s lib(eration) 3–4
words for which no origin settled 41
word origin/etymology 39–63
work and orgy, common origin of 39
Yiddish 159
Zamenhof, Dr Ludwig Lazar 170
Zulu 176